Black Ice
by ladylibre
Summary: BLACK ICE… an AU story that re-imagines what could have happened between pre-Twilight Edward and Rosalie. How will their past affect their future? This is a canon-based yet VERY DIFFERENT TAKE on SM's universe, starting in 1933 and proceeding into the time of Twilight. All canon couples will eventually appear, so give it a shot! You won't be disappointed :-)
1. Chapter 1: Another Day

**Disclaimer: SM owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is MINE **

**Just in case the summary was unclear, let me explain this story a little further:**

**This is NOT a prequel to SM's canon. It is a different vision of what could have happened between Edward and Rosalie given the parameters SM established (time, personality, circumstances, etc), taking great liberties as I see fit. Canon couples will appear, but given the direction this story takes, those relationships will be a bit different. Not ruined or reduced, just… different.**

**Whether you ship Roseward or not, I hope you give this story a try. I PROMISE you won't be sorry!**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Another Day**

**Edward's POV**

It is midnight on New Year's Day.

Nineteen thirty-three has arrived, tantalizing the world with illusions of hope and possibility.

Despite the remote location of our house, the merriment of the town seems to be right outside the window, cloaking me in anticipation and joy.

My hands rake through my hair as the jubilee presses against me.

I wish it would stop.

The revelry itself is bad enough, but its ability to slither into my mind like some serpentine devil is maddening.

I need to escape.

A bark of a laugh flies from my lips at the suggestion.

As if I ever could.

There is no escape when you are fleeing yourself.

From their position on the loveseat, Dr. and Mrs. Cullen do not react to my outburst, but their thoughts betray them as usual.

They are concerned.

Of all the feelings I pluck from their minds, of all the sentiments they waste on me, concern is the worst. Akin to pity but not strong enough to be alarm, it likens me to an unpleasant headline in the post or a patient with a mysterious skin rash.

I do not need concern.

What I need is silence.

Not love.

Not compassion.

Not even eternal access to a blood-red sea.

Just...silence.

My superhuman hearing can turn the slightest note into a symphony. But my telepathic talent, such as it is, stretches that ability to an almost perverse extent. Thus I am always surrounded by sound. None of my choosing, a paltry few to my liking.

And as such, more than anything else...more than the chance to hold my mother's hand again...more than relief from the fiery famine in my throat...what I want most in this god-forsaken world is one moment of silence.

One moment where the world does not crash against my stormy mind, threatening to plunge me further beneath the turbulence with each insipid thought.

One moment where I am as alone as I long to be.

And closer to the dead which I am supposed to be.

"Edward?"

My head turns toward my maker, the softness in his golden eyes struggling to overcome the lifelessness in mine.

Myriad questions flit through his mind competing for verbalization. I do not bother to pretend that I cannot hear them all nor that I would be inclined to answer should he choose one.

By now, he should know better than that.

As he studies me without success, his wife squeezes his hand, keeping her eyes where I cannot read them.

It matters not. Her thoughts are clear enough.

After a minute or an hour of silence, the doctor's frozen features manage to fall, and in the lines of his mouth, I see something resembling disappointment.

As he turns back to his bride, I almost smile.

Disappointment I can handle.

—B—I—

It is the waiting that kills me.

Waiting for everything.

Waiting for nothing.

Ceaseless, meaningless waiting.

I can almost outrun it, I find. As I am the quickest man or beast I have ever encountered.

And in those sweet moments when my limbs make a mockery of whatever terrain I traverse, I almost feel happy. As if something worthwhile has resulted from this hell I find myself in.

But the freedom is short-lived because at some point, I have to stop.

I always have to stop.

Not for fatigue or lack of direction. But because I have but a slim margin in which to exist here, and at some point, it always runs out.

Or runs in, to be more precise.

It runs into a town, a railway, or a campsite, all of which mean one inescapable thing.

Humans.

And as this world was made with them in mind, I must defer to their whims and wishes. So I cannot run at full speed where they can see. I refrain from displaying my strength in their presence.

And I accept that draining them would be...bad form.

(I was going to say "in poor taste," but that would be an untruth.)

So I come to a reluctant stop, always with a groan and a curse. And the weight of waiting crashes into me with the force of a tsunami, and I am taken down once more, losing whatever mental ground my running had gained me.

The thirst is unbearable, the uselessness a constant torment.

But it is the waiting that kills me.

—B—I—

Another failed attempt to outrun time brings me home long before I was due to return.

And as I reach the front edge of the living room rug, I stop short, damning myself internally.

I should have been paying closer attention.

More to the point, I should have headed north as I started to.

"My darling..."

"My love..."

"So sweet..."

"I love you..."

They were careful to abstain while I was in earshot, hence the other reason I ran so often. The doctor was convinced their consummating happiness had driven me away six years ago. And in the two years since my return, I had never caught them in the act.

Not once.

"Carlisle..."

"Yes?"

"Please...kiss me... like..."

"This?"

"Yes...right there..."

I cannot move, however much I want to.

Because they do not know I am here.

They are too consumed with their own scents and sounds to be conscious of anything else.

And if I move now and they discover me, our joint mortification would be too much to bear.

"Carlisle..."

"Hmmm?"

"You...you are..."

"All yours...always..."

I cannot move, however much I want to.

Because I seem to lose my grace and stealth when embarrassment hastens my flight.

The last time I'd caught them in a comparatively chaste situation, my attempt to slip out of his study undetected found me falling over the desk and into the wall where I knocked his favorite Van Gogh to the floor, shattering glass all around me.

That was eight months ago.

I have not been in that room since.

"Darling..."

"Yes?"

"I need to be inside you..."

"Not yet."

"Please, love..."

"But it is my turn to feast..."

Their loveplay is intensifying, the genteel banter giving way to words they never say in front of me.

I block it out as best I can, feeling like a child trying to stop the wind with his hand.

"Esme..."

"Yes, love?"

"Now?"

"Yes...Now, please..."

I want to resist.

I know that I should.

But I have no more fight in me tonight.

My eyes flutter shut as I lean against the mantle, removing the latch from my guarded senses.

I am awash in lust as I behold her curves and softness, the ball clenching in my abdomen as she coos and sighs.

_You are not my mother._

_You are just a woman._

I am envious of his position as he mounts her, coveting his strength and sensuality as he claims his prize.

_You are not my father._

_You are just a man._

I am neither boy nor beast as I embrace my shame and bear silent witness to their coupling, sparing one brief thought for propriety as I swallow my own sinful cries.

Evening passes, and the morning comes.

Such is the end of another day.

**Soooo… what do we think of Iceward? Well… Rosalie arrives soon. Maybe she can cheer him up, LOL.**

**Thanks for reading! xoxo**


	2. Chapter 2: Unwanted Guest

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse.**

**A/N: Thanks so much to all who read, alerted, and reviewed Chapter One! (Special thanks to Camilla for the ADF rec!) **

**I know that Roseward is a pairing you either love or hate, but take heart! Canon couples will eventually appear…after these two go through a few things first.**

**I also promise to update regularly and finish this fic. It seems that very few Roseward fics make it past the first few chapters, and I promise that this won't be one of them.**

**Chapter 2: Unwanted Guest**

**Edward's POV**

"Anything?" she whispers.

He mimics her volume. "Not yet."

I am amused by their primitive attempts at privacy. Although converting Beethoven's Ninth into a piano solo is rather challenging, it in no way prevents me from hearing them with perfect clarity.

But I appreciate the effort. So I encourage their illusion and play with increased fervor.

_Crescendo._

_Bruscamente._

The change in dynamics has the desired effect.

"This is unhealthy, Carlisle," she says at normal volume.

"I know, dearest." He touches her hand with a sigh. "But I cannot force him."

Even without telepathy, I know what they want.

They want me to talk about my defection.

Why I left.

Where I went.

Who I killed.

Through his eyes, I see the wringing of her hands. "Isn't there anything we can do?"

His head says no. "We have to give him time."

She thinks, but does not say, that my silence and stillness confound her.

Frighten her actually.

She expects tirades and irrationality, outbursts and accusations. But as I lack the wherewithal for such pitiful exertions, I cannot indulge her. Only when I play does she think she can hear my feelings. So I choose the moodiest music I can find, tossing in the occasional arietta for variety's sake.

It is cruel to toy with her this way, but I must pass the time somehow.

"It has been two years," she says aloud.

"I know." His memory flashes to my eyes when I returned, crimson pupils confessing what I did not. "But he has to want to."

She sighs, and the defeatist sound hollows my triumph as their conversation leaves me behind.

My fingers ease on the keys, and an unsolicited weight settles in my chest.

I do not intend to hurt them.

I do not want to hurt them.

But I cannot discuss it.

It would impossible.

If a demon returned to heaven, he would not debrief the angels on his erstwhile exploits. Would not his smoky robe and soot-covered skin be proof enough of his holiday in hell?

_Fortissimo._

_Sforzando._

The shift in dynamic alters the course of their discourse, and they return to me.

"Maybe he needs someone," my maker muses.

His wife is confused. "To drink?"

The suggestion might be humorous if a conspiring flame of desire did not singe my throat.

"No, darling." He hides his repulsion well. "To love."

Her thoughts are all lavender and freesia. "Of course."

The thirst within me yields to a blinding rage, and my fingers darken the music in reply.

She frowns when the disharmony reaches her ears, and she lowers her voice. "But who? How?"

"That is harder to say." He caresses her cheek. "Not all men can be as blessed as I."

She flutters into his hand. "It is I who has been blessed."

His other hand mirrors the first, and he leans in to sample her lips.

Affection fills their minds, relegating my misery to the background where it belongs.

I should be relieved.

I should be grateful.

But bitterness cuts the venom that fills my mouth, complicating the expected envy upon their embrace.

I spit out the offensive poison, hoping to leave a stain on her spotless floor.

_Coda._

The song has left me.

—B—I—

I am in my room, reading _The Iliad_ in the original Greek when I hear it.

The moist, dull music that tortured and tantalized me during my four-year absence.

The one sound with which Dr. Cullen promised never to surprise me.

A human heartbeat.

I suck in one last breath as I drop the heavy text and ghost to the window, the trials of the ancient world no longer of concern.

I scan the darkness for my maker, my mind racing.

It could not be a colleague or a patient.

He would have warned me.

He would have prepared the house.

And his wife would not be battling her thirst in the room below.

I consider going to her in some sensitive show of support when Dr. Cullen comes into full view.

And what I see stops me dead.

He is running with a young woman in his arms.

Blonde.

Nearly lifeless.

And bleeding.

_Thank heaven I am holding my breath._

Could she in fact be a patient? An emergency case that could not wait?

A wounded nomad lost in the woods?

Panic submits to curiosity, and I decide to invade the doctor's thoughts just as something critical catches my attention.

Something about the woman that halts my eavesdropping and makes my frozen skin crawl.

This human is no stranger.

This human is Miss Rosalie Hale.

An angry hiss slips through my teeth.

Even with my cursory interactions with the nearby human population, Miss Hale's reputation long precedes her.

She is wealthy, envied, and worst of all, well-known. A day seldom passes when her name does not pass through the mind or lips of someone in town.

Rosalie Hale?

Nearly lifeless and bloody in my maker's arms?

Greta Garbo would have been less conspicuous.

I have no more need of the doctor's mind as mine has come to a decision.

Miss Hale must go.

I fly down the stairs toward the parlor where the great physician is laying Miss Hale on the settee, noting that my maker's mate is also holding her breath.

I stop at the threshold of the room. "What is _she _doing here?"

Dr. Cullen ignores me. "Another blanket, dear."

His wife runs to the closet and returns with three.

"Rosalie Hale?" I persist. "Are you mad?"

Esme's eyes widen at my tone, but I am unmoved. "She has no business here, and I cannot believe that you would be so obtuse as to…"

"Edward!" His rebuke is sharp. "Do you not understand what is going on here?"

I step into the room and am rendered speechless.

The stench of liquor.

A torn dress.

Dark, bloody bruises.

With superhuman senses, I should not be so blind.

_What did you expect me to do? _Carlisle asks with less force. _I couldn't just leave her bleeding in the street._

I nod, unable to meet his eyes. His wife returns with a basin of perfumed water and begins her ministrations to the injured girl's body.

I look away.

"Do you know how to contact her parents?" She dabs a cloth on Miss Hale's forehead. "I am sure they are beside themselves with worry."

And in the half-second during which he hesitates to answer, the doctor's intentions flash across his mind.

"You cannot be serious!" I thunder. "You're going to change her?"

Mrs. Cullen pauses in her work to gape at us in turn, resting her hand against the tangled mass of blonde curls before her eyes settle on her partner. "Carlisle, do you think that's wise?"

"Her injuries are too severe." His sympathy turns clinical in an instant. "She will die if I do not intervene."

"Then let her!"

"Edward," Esme chides. "That is unkind."

"He does not have the right to decide her fate."

"I do not believe that," he says softly.

"And what of your belief in God?" I ask. "Do you dare second-guess his divine plan?"

My sarcasm hardens his golden eyes. "God is love, son." I bristle at the endearment as he knew I would. "And He would never take a beloved daughter from this world in such a wicked way."

And with the word "daughter," Esme begins selecting linens for a female bedroom, her mind overflowing with frills and fabric.

No matter.

This is not the first time I have had to stand alone.

"You cannot change Rosalie Hale, Dr. Cullen," I restate. "The risk of exposure is too great."

He opens his mouth to reply, but the sudden lurch of a human heart deters his attention. The muscle is slowing in surrender, weary of the work required to sustain her life.

"I cannot let her die." Carlisle looks at me, his eyes pleading. "Surely, _you _can understand that."

"I do not," I reply tightly. "And I refuse to sanction this madness with my presence."

Esme calls my name as I take my angry leave from the room, but her appeal goes unacknowledged.

"Let him go," Carlisle says. "He will change his mind."

I am halfway to the second level when his prediction assaults my ears. And when the thoughts behind it catch up to me, I nearly shatter the banister in irate astonishment.

Of all the presumptuous asininity…

"Do you think you can handle this?" he is asking his wife. "Witnessing a change is no easy thing."

She nods as her mind fills with romantic images as ridiculous as the prospects her husband is entertaining.

It is clear now.

They have taken complete leave of their mental faculties.

The very idea that I could love someone...anyone...is ludicrous.

But _Rosalie Hale_?

Certifiable insanity.

My anger mellows to pity, and the tightening in my chest relents. Whether Miss Hale survives the change or not—and I am stunned by my true wish in that regard—the plans being made on our behalf will quickly bear out their inherent folly, so I give the matter no further consideration as I proceed up the stairs.

"Are you ready?" I hear the doctor ask.

His wife nods again, alarm and anticipation competing for dominance in her thoughts.

Dr. Cullen bends his face to Miss Hale's, murmuring a prayer as he runs a finger down the side of her face. He cups her cheek in a gesture so tender that it makes me uncomfortable.

"Forgive me for what must happen," he whispers as he gently turns her head to one side. "But the pain will save you."

And then he clamps his mouth to her neck, his teeth puncturing the carotid artery with graceful ease. Esme caresses Miss Hale's leg and chants her own heaven-bound entreaties as her husband's venom seeps into the young woman's bloodstream, initiating the transformation. He finishes his work with a final kiss, licking the incision and sealing it shut.

Despite my repulsion, I am intensely aroused.

And aggravated.

I shake my head in double dismay, resolved to put the entire scene from my mind. But as my hand reaches for the knob of my bedroom door, the first intelligible thought from Miss Rosalie Hale assaults me.

And I am wholly unable to ignore it.


	3. Chapter 3: These Three Words

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse.**

**Note: Rosalie's thoughts are **_'Enclosed in apostrophes like this' _******to distinguish them from Edward's thoughts.**

**Chapter 3: These Three Words**

**Edward's POV**

'_Make it stop.'_

Her words are a breath, three tones so soft that I had blinked I would have missed them.

Their whisper halts me in mid-motion, paralyzing me with their delicacy.

'_Make it stop.'_

A puff of air.

This one longer than the first.

My hand releases the doorknob as the gentle wind blows me back.

I collapse against the wall, unnerved.

'_Please…make it stop.'_

I know she is in pain.

A pain so real that it is a palpable, living thing.

A pain so wrong that it defies reason and rightness.

Her cries should pierce my ears with their volume.

And yet…

'_Somebody, please…'_

Another whisper.

The flutter of a butterfly's wing.

Has she surrendered to death's embrace?

Is she unaware of what is happening?

Am I asking these questions?

'_Please…'_

I close my eyes, attempting to ignore her sighs.

But it is too late.

I am caught.

'_Please…'_

Her voice…

'_Make it stop.'_

Its conflicting textures and contours…

'_Please…make it stop.'_

It fills me with wonder.

'_Please…'_

And fear.

"It is beginning," the doctor says in the room below. "Hear how her heart trembles in her chest."

His wife does not understand how he can discuss the situation so calmly, but she admires his tolerance. "Is she in pain?"

"You remember your change," he whispers.

She winces. "Is there anything we can do?"

"We can bear witness." He studies his patient's face. "And we can pray."

'_Please…someone please…'_

"Why does she not cry out?" she asks.

"She is likely too weak to speak," he laments. "But she feels it all too acutely."

The doctor wants to do something.

To ease her suffering however he might.

He lays a gentle hand against her forehead.

'_No!'_

She instantly recoils, shrinking.

'_No more.'_

A fresh torment envelops her.

Blanketing her with the desire to flee.

'_Please… stop!' _

The doctor caresses her hair.

His wife smiles her approval.

But the girl is afraid.

'_No!'_

Her cries intensify.

'_Don't!'_

Filling me with anguish.

'_Stop!'_

"Stop!"

Dr. Cullen's hand stills against her curls.

"Was that Edward?" Mrs. Cullen asks.

_What?_

"Was he talking to me?" her husband asks.

_Did I just say that aloud?_

"Edward?" he calls.

I curse myself, swallowing my anger. "Don't… don't do that."

"What?" the doctor asks.

I growl. "Don't touch her."

His healing hands release her as if her skin was aflame.

The young girl sighs. '_Thank you, God.'_

Her sweet relief makes me sigh.

And curse myself again.

"Edward?" the doctor calls out. "What's wrong?"

"She's just…" I barely suppress a groan. "It frightens her when you do that."

They nod, simmering with sympathy.

In the silence, I reach for the doorknob again, looking for my indifference.

"But before…" the doctor's wife says. "I touched her leg…"

I know she is talking to me.

I also know I do not have to respond.

"Yes, well..."

Yet I am still talking.

"…I don't know about that." I clear my throat. "But that, just now…she didn't like that."

"Okay," she says warmly. "Thank you, Edward."

I grunt my reply, but she does not notice.

They have moved on and taken my future with them.

"He protects her so fiercely already!" Mrs. Cullen whispers, forgetting my audial abilities. "Darling, you were right!"

"The circumstances of their beginning could be better," her husband muses with slightly more caution. "But I think they can overcome them in time." He divides his smile between his patient and his wife. "Yes, I believe they can."

I grab the knob and nearly rip the door from its hinges as I stalk into my room. The door swings shut, rattling the frame, and the commotion prompts the Cullens to cease their celebrating. But their minds are decidedly hopeful as they discuss intangible ways to help their newest daughter.

I hate them both.

I crash into my leather chair and retrieve my book from the floor, determined to lose myself in Agamemnon's angst.

'_When will it stop?'_

Damn her.

'_Someone make it stop.'_

Damn her to the depths of the pit.

I close the book without reading a word, furious at every creature in this house.

Furious at the doctor for bringing her here.

Furious at his wife for supporting his insanity.

And furious at Miss Hale for involving me in this.

'_Someone help me.'_

I sympathize with her plight.

Any sane man would.

But this is not my problem.

_She_ is not my problem.

'_Anybody?'_

I did not make this decision for her.

I was dead-set against it and still am.

So her suffering is not my problem.

And I refuse to let her behave as if it were.

'_Please…'_

_Leave me alone, _I growl.

'_Please,' _she calls as if she can hear me. '_I'll do anything you want. Just don't hurt me.'_

My back stiffens.

My nostrils flare.

And a discomforting pressure builds in my chest.

_'Please don't hurt me.'_

The words…

Their shift in tenor…

She is not talking to me.

"Did you see anyone?" Mrs. Cullen asks as she covers the unconscious girl with a blanket.

"Not a soul," her husband replies. "And there were no footprints to track."

"The poor thing," she tsks. "What kind of animals could do this?"

His voice darkens. "The kind that don't deserve the air they breathe."

'_Royce…'_

In spite of her fear, her voice curls around the name.

And my revulsion rises.

'_Royce, don't!'_

New pain laps at her insides, draggin the memories through her mind:

Tailored gray suit.

Groomed mustache.

A wide smile that never reaches the eyes.

'_Royce… please!' _

Her fear is mounting.

Tripled by the knowledge that she has misplaced her trust, sullied her pearls in the hands of swine.

'_Don't do this!'_

Four more faces come into view, each as menacing at the first.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as they cloak me in dread.

Her perfect recall is superfluous.

I know what happens next.

'_No!'_

Five men become beasts at the expense of her innocence.

Their rakish groans override her pleas as she begs for a mercy than never comes.

_…'_

The breathiness is back, jolting me from the seedy scene.

_'You said you loved me...'_

My hands rake the arm of my chair, leaving malevolent tracks in the buttery fabric.

My eyes snap open as I return to myself.

And I am downstairs and out the front door before the doctor has time to blink.

**What do we think of this first peek into Rosalie's mind?**


	4. Chapter 4: Like a Fool to a Flame

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse.**

**A/N: With everything going on in the real-life Twiverse this week, I wanted to post this ASAP. I wish this were a happy chappie, but this isn't really a happy fic…not yet anyway.**

**Chapter 4: Like a Fool to a Flame**

**Edward's POV**

I run.

I run past the parked car in the driveway, through the trees shielding our home from view, and toward a horizon I do not wish to reach.

I run to escape her voice, to get lost in the squealing of the wind as it whips against my face.

I run to ignore her struggle, to untangle myself from the lure of its complexity.

And I run to forget, to silence the indiscreet voices from my criminal past conjured up by her pleading.

I do not know when or why I come to a stop. I know only that my limbs have exorcised their demon of speed, and I am no longer frantic.

My surroundings are unfamiliar, yet they reek of something once lost, remnants of a place I wish I had never been.

And as I flip through the memories that its scent and sounds inspire, I realize where I am.

I am standing in the place where Miss Hale should have died.

I expect a flare of anger to accompany the realization, but instead I feel strangely comforted, as if I were running not away but toward something.

Something that should not exist.

The air still sings with the aromatic notes of her blood, and I am surprised by my lack of interest. And as I reflect on the night, I realize that at no time have I been the least bit tempted to taste her.

Not for a moment.

The doctor said that there were no footprints to be found, and I had hoped rather than believed him to be mistaken. My inspection confirms his report, and my latent fury makes its appearance.

Sifting through the myriad scents in the air, I concentrate on those which taint the space where her lifeblood was spilled. There are five, one fouler than the rest.

My nostrils flare at the stench, revolted by its undertone of self-satisfaction.

The monster within me licks its predatory fangs, and I tremble with resolve.

The offending animals will not survive the night.

I will end them all.

I will end them all and take great pleasure in it.

And I will save the King for last.

But as my inner beast stretches to life, a discomforting flutter forces me to pause.

Should I decide to act, I would embark on a trek toward a precipice so steep that there would be no possibility of return. Were I to suckle once more at the sweet teat of revenge, its lethal, luscious nectar would be my eternal undoing.

And loathe though I am to admit it, there are those who would be irrevocably injured by my permanent loss.

Two such creatures, in fact.

I have never given any thought to their wishes, resuming my place in their lives only for a lack of appealing alternatives.

But in this dark alley where purity was poisoned, their compassionate faces linger behind my lids, and I am shocked by the tenderness the vision inspires.

It seems that even vampires can be emotionally overwrought.

Shaking off the image, I expel an aggravated breath and accept the change in my course.

There will be no more bloodshed tonight.

The monster within me roars its dissension, and I muffle the sound with a groan of my own, wishing I had been out of doors when Dr. Cullen brought home his pet project.

She has wreaked nothing but havoc on my faculties since her arrival, and I am already weary of her presence.

I need a break.

With my attention focused on the woodsy wilds on the other side of town, I put my swiftest foot to the ground again, determined to leave Miss Hale and her afflictions behind me.

—B—I—

It is morning when the house comes back into view.

And though I am but a mile away, it is not what I see that arrests my attention.

But what I hear.

Even at this distance, I can tell that the doctor has moved his patient to the soundproofed lower level. Were a human standing on the other side of the locked door, the clamor would be inaudible.

But my senses are not so restricted.

And I am trapped by Rosalie's cries.

I expect their volume, understand their strength.

But their nuances, the intricacies of their design, hasten me home as if in answer to a siren's call.

I cannot move quickly enough.

Her wailing presses in and around me without respite as I fly into the house, past the salon and down the back stairs, coming to a stop just outside the door to her chamber.

'_Please!'_

She knows I am here.

The thought is comforting.

I push open the door with human speed so as not to startle her, and vulnerable violet eyes scorch mine.

'_Help me!'_

She is rigid with pain, her limbs straining against the creamy softness of the bed as another guttural cry pierces the air.

I am at her side in an instant.

'_Please! I cannot…'_

Her head rolls from side to side as an elegant hand rises off the mattress. I take it in mine without a second thought.

'_Thank you.'_

I almost smile.

For a female human, her grip is strong, and as she squeezes, I realize that this is the first time a mortal has touched me out of something other than fear.

The only time I have held a woman's hand.

'_What is happening to me?'_

I now realize that doctor and his wife are away from the house.

They must be in town.

'_Why am I on fire?'_

When they should be here, answering her question.

"You are changing."

'_Am I in hell? Is this vanity's revenge?'_

She cannot hear me, and that is just as well.

My answers provide no comfort.

Her eyes pinch together as another tremor slashes through her body, and I look away, ashamed.

I can offer her nothing.

I try to extract my hand from hers, but she refuses me.

'_Please! Don't go!'_

It would take nothing to break her hold, but I am paralyzed by her plea.

I have never been needed before.

The sensation is intoxicating.

I caress her fragile hand with my thumb, singed by her satin and blind faith.

"I shall stay."

—B—I—

Time crawls as I sit by Rosalie's side.

Morning becomes evening becomes dawn again.

And still I sit.

Dr. and Mrs. Cullen flit in and out, their initial surprise at my vigil yielding to understated delight. They are not callous enough to rejoice at Rosalie's suffering, but my refusal to leave suggests the amorous attachment they wish to see.

"The change is proceeding normally," the good doctor observes on day one. "She should awaken before midnight two days hence."

I do not respond.

"Esme brought some of her clothes from home," he says that evening. "And the pearl-handled comb and brush from the night table in her room."

I spare him a nod.

"Royce is telling everyone that Rosalie left him," Mrs. Cullen offers on the second night. "That she seeks to be the next Jean Harlow."

My eyes darken with fury, but I say nothing.

"I fear that I have supported his claims by lifting some of her things from the house."

Her mind floods with guilt as she begins to take her leave.

"You were trying to help," I mutter.

Her surprise is profound, and I can feel her relief as it spreads. "Thank you."

The Cullens leave Rosalie to me once again, assuming a romantic motive.

They could not be more mistaken.

I stay with Rosalie because her misery provides a worthy respite from my own.

With every primal cry, she entices me from my wretchedness.

With every agonized thought, she draws me away from my grief.

With every tender memory, she reminds me to forget myself.

She is a distraction from every terrible thing that I am.

And I am addicted to the peace of her pain.

—B—I—

Day three.

The end of the end is near.

Dr. and Mrs. Cullen come into the room when the young girl's heartbeat slows to ten beats per minute.

"It won't be long," he says.

His wife nods, unable to voice her feelings.

There are too many to name.

Nine…eight…seven…

"Is her first meal prepared?" she asks.

"I have a few ideas," her husband replies. "Her reaction will dictate what I will do."

Six…five…four…

"Do you think she knows what's happening?"

The doctor doesn't reply, and after a moment, I realize that the question is being addressed to me.

I have been sitting here long enough.

I rise from the stool and walk toward the door. "No."

"You're not staying?" the wife asks.

I stifle an impatient groan. "I have things to do."

"I would think she would want to see a familiar face," the doctor observes.

"She doesn't know me," I spit.

The doctor's eyes actually roll.

Three…two…one…

Silence.

Stillness.

Fear.

Her thoughts are coming at increasing speed, and the onslaught overwhelms me.

I have to get out.

I open the door. "Say nothing of my presence here."

"Edward, I think you should…"

"Where am I?"

Her rich, musical voice fills the void, the innocent query shaking me to my core.

But I keep walking, ignoring it all.

**Thoughts? Questions? Anything?**


	5. Chapter 5: Awakening

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this storyline is mine :)**

**A/N: Sorry that I've broken my promise of weekly updates. As I posted in an A/N on "Serenity's Prayer" yesterday, A LOT has been going on in my RL lately. My husband's concussive headaches are flaring up again, which is tough on all of us. And a publisher has expressed an interest in reading my completed original novel, which is extremely cool! So in the limited time that I have found to write, I'm working on two fanfics and editing a 400-page novel.**

**Rest assured that I have NOT abandoned this story and will continue to update every two weeks or so. Thanks for sticking with me!**

**Rosalie has awakened! Let's see what happens…**

**Chapter 5: Awakening**

**Edward's POV**

I make it as far as the staircase when curiosity or one of its cousins pauses me mid-step.

_I have stayed this long..._

"Where am I?" she repeats with greater force.

"You are in our home," Dr. Cullen says.

His response does not comfort.

"What am I…" She covers her mouth as she hears herself. "What happened to my voice?"

"There is much to explain," the doctor says. "Why don't we take it one step at a time?"

Carlisle falls silent as Rosalie looks down at her clothes, frowning as she fingers the unfamiliar peach fabric.

_I should have dressed her in something she recognizes, _Esme laments.

It occurs to me that jade would be a better choice.

As I shake off the thought, Rosalie notices her hands.

Their perfect, clear fingernails.

Their smooth, white skin.

Their obvious inhumanity.

And all hell breaks loose.

An ear-piercing growl fills the room as she flips backwards off the bed, landing in a crouch on top of the sideboard. Shocked by the strangeness of her reaction, her crimson eyes fixate on the blond man with the cautious eyes.

"Explain yourself," she demands.

"Rosalie, I…"

"How do you know my name?"

"The Hales are a distinguished family," he explains. "Those in my profession are familiar with the name."

She notes his white coat. "You're a doctor?"

"Yes."

Her eyes scan the room, noting the lack of medical equipment. "What is your name?"

"Carlisle Cullen."

She believes him, but it means nothing. "Have we met?"

"No."

"Then what am I doing here?"

He softens his voice. "We wanted to help you."

The pronoun draws her eyes to the other person in the room.

The doctor walks toward his bride, but Rosalie's glare halts him. "This is my wife, Esme."

"Hello, Rosalie," she smiles. "I am so…"

"Leave," Rosalie hisses.

If Esme were human, her heart would shatter. "Me?"

"Him." Rosalie straightens her stance as she glares at the doctor. "I want you gone. Now."

"As you wish." He shares a glance with his wife before quitting the room.

Joining me at the banister, he drags a palm down his face. _This is not going well_.

I shrug and say nothing.

He is a fool for expecting her gratitude.

His wife watches Rosalie leap to the floor, keeping her back to the table. "What happened to me?"

Esme hesitates. "What do you remember?"

"I…" Rosalie closes her eyes, struggling to see through the haze of her change.

Assorted images flit through her mind:

The doting smile of her father.

A tiny blonde doll in a pink and white dress.

Girlish giggles when the newspaper boy winks at her.

The ripping of her dress as she is shoved to the ground.

She bites her bottom lip at the memory, and I wince as the pain crests in her mind.

She swallows hard, wondering at the flames in her throat. "Is he…"

"Here?" Esme replies. "No, dear. We would never let that animal anywhere near you."

Her thoughts warm toward the caramel-haired woman. "Thank you."

"Of course."

_I think you should go in there._

My attention snaps back to my maker, my eyes shooting daggers in response to his absurdity.

_You were there during her change,_ he reasons. _She is__ bound to remember you._

I shake my head once, ending the discussion.

"Where are my parents?" Rosalie asks.

Mrs. Cullen's confidence falters, and she averts her eyes. "They are at home, worried about you."

In a panic, Rosalie flies past Esme to the door. When she yanks the knob, the metal partition flies across the room and makes a spectacular hole in the opposing wall. Screaming in alarm, she flings herself backwards, and the concrete wall yields beneath the force of her weight.

She clutches her body and finds it unharmed.

She palms her forehead and feels no sweat.

She has had enough.

"Where is the doctor?" she demands.

Carlisle waits a few moments then appears in the doorway.

"I am here." He folds his hands in front of him. "I am sure you have questions."

His calm demeanor aggravates her, and her body tightens in response.

And as her nostrils flare, she inhales.

And pauses.

"Someone else is here."

"Yes," Esme says.

The air betrays me as she sniffs again.

"Who?"

"Edward," Esme replies. "Our son."

Rosalie's instincts ignite, and her hands clench at her sides.

"Did he bring me here?"

"No," Carlisle says. "I did."

She wants to know more, but my presence is distracting her.

"I can smell him."

Dr. Cullen nods.

She samples the air once more. "I can smell…everything."

He nods again.

"Where is he?" she asks.

"In the hall."

"Why?" Fear pollutes her voice. "Is he a bad one? Does he want to hurt me?"

"I would never hurt you."

Once again, I have spoken unaware.

And her startled gasp cuts through me.

'_That voice…'_

She is struggling to understand, and I wait.

The minute is endless.

"Edward?"

My insides twist as she speaks my name. "Yes?"

Another gasp.

Her hand flies to her chest.

I have the strangest urge to kiss her fingers.

"Was that you…before?"

I swallow my foolishness. "Yes."

Her thoughts muddle, the anxious glances between the doctor and his wife confounding her further.

She is shocked to realize that my voice makes her feel safe.

"You promise not to hurt me?"

_I swear on what little of my honor remains._ "Yes."

She takes a deep breath, noting that her lungs have not missed the oxygen. "Then come."

It is then that I realize that I am already outside the room, having anticipated the summons.

Her power over me is maddening.

I step into her line of sight, just beyond the cavern where the door used to be, and I am struck dumb.

She is defensive, intense.

A wild thing to be tamed.

But most distressingly…

She is Aphrodite in the flesh.

A creature of unbearable beauty.

How I missed this before I cannot say.

But I see it now in a fraction of a second, and the realization levels me.

Her red eyes hold me, scorching me like six thousand suns.

I am stunned to find that I do not mind.

"You were here," she says.

A fourth time. "Yes."

She is wary but relaxing by degrees. "Why?"

I stifle the urge to look away. "I do not know."

Her eyes harden. "You lie."

_Do not toy with her,_ Carlisle warns.

For once, I heed his advice.

"Your suffering was too severe to ignore."

She flinches. "Did you touch me?"

"Your hand." I glance at the place where it unconsciously grips her throat. "You reached up when I approached the bed, and I held your hand."

"For how long?"

"Until a few moments ago."

She searches my eyes, tearing my soul asunder. Whatever she finds convinces her to continue. "What has happened to me, Edward?"

Again she disarms me with the sound of my name.

I begin to wonder if it is intentional, some sort of defensive measure.

Whatever its purpose, I must diffuse it.

Ignoring the flutter, I hold her gaze, knowing as I do that I must skip the unspeakable. "Dr. Cullen discovered you on the street."

She looks away first. "Did anyone else see me?"

I expect the question and respond to its double meaning. "You were alone when he found you and wrapped in a blanket the first time I saw you."

"When was that?"

"Three days ago."

"Three days?" The walls rattle as she roars. "I have been held hostage for three days?"

Her assessment is flawed, so I do not answer.

"Speak, boy!"

My temper flares at her diction and tone, but I will not antagonize her.

"You are not a hostage," I reply. "You have been immovable and unresponsive since Carlisle found you."

"What about my family?" Her mind flashes to her mother's face. "Do they know where I am?"

I glance at Esme, and she tells me to answer. "Your fiancé has…"

"He is not my fiancé!"

"Okay." I raise my hands in deference, willing her to stay calm. "That man, then, is saying that you abandoned him to pursue your starlit dreams in Hollywood."

Her body stiffens with fury, but she holds her temper.

I admire her grit.

She raises her chin. "I need to go home."

Carlisle groans internally, and I hate him for what I have to say. "I am afraid that is impossible."

Her eyes wish me dead. "What?"

"You cannot go home."

Esme reaches for Carlisle's hand as the young girl snarls. "Why not?"

"Because you are a danger to your family now," I reply.

She is instantly alarmed. "Why?"

I sigh.

There is no way around it.

"Because you are a vampire."

Rosalie's mind goes blank, and Carlisle gapes at me._ That is how you choose to tell her?_

Esme tsks her disbelief, and I am annoyed with them both.

What do they expect of me?

I am not one to cloak the truth in roses.

Before I can return my focus to the anxious newborn, she does something I do not foresee.

Rosalie leaps across the room and lunges for my throat.

**Yikes! That could have gone better!**

**What do we think of the first meeting between Edward and Rosalie? **


	6. Chapter 6: Was It Something I Said?

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)**

**So Rosalie is throwing herself at Edward...and not in a good way...**

**Chapter 6: Was It Something I Said?**

**Edward's POV**

Rosalie launches into the void with a shout, interrupting my mental quarrel with Carlisle.

She is driven by blind rage, so reading her mind is of no use.

But for all her physical allurements, her decision to attack arouses the savage within me.

And he roars to life in an instant.

"Edward!" Esme screams.

Rosalie hurls her body into mine, sending us flying through the damaged wall at my back. She lands on top of me, straddling my waist as a pile of rocky debris breaks our fall. Soft manicured hands close around my throat like a vice, blood-red eyes boring a hole in my soul.

"Die!" she hisses as she bears down on my throat. "Die, you filthy liar."

She is strong to be sure, her death-grip compromising my windpipe with each flex of her fingers. The weight of her body atop mine gratifies some untapped region of my teenage roots, and for a moment, I revel in our position.

But as my larynx begins to concede, the monster within me tires of being dominated by this presumptuous newborn.

He wants to dismantle her.

Esme tries again. "Edward!"

I cannot tell from her thoughts if she cries out in warning or worry, but her voice sobers me.

And I remember.

Rosalie is no ordinary newborn.

Underneath it all, she is a woman:

A woman who has been violated by the man she loved.

A woman who has been turned into a monster by a man she'd never met.

A woman who has been told a horrifying truth by a man she thought she could trust.

A woman who is scared and scarred and in need of sympathy.

Her current focus on my destruction notwithstanding.

"Carlisle." I grind out the words. "Get Esme…out of here."

"Don't move," Rosalie growls under her breath.

"Upstairs!" I repeat.

Esme is frantic. "We can't leave him here, Carlisle."

"I wouldn't dare," he affirms.

Their solidarity arrests Rosalie's attention and reminds her of an unfortunate truth.

She is outnumbered.

Distracted, she slackens the pressure on my neck, and I raise my forearms in front of my face and press them against her arms, breaking her hold. Rosalie tumbles to the ground as I roll from beneath her and leap to my feet.

Her surprised gasp is laced with malice.

_Thank heaven he didn't need to strike her, _Esme sighs.

I give no response as I speed out of the room.

Up the stairs and out the front door I fly, the cadence of her furious steps tapping out a staccato rhythm in my head. She hurls an endless stream of curses at my fleeing frame, but they are of no concern.

I must get her away from the house.

She is stronger, but I am quicker, leaping through treetops and out of her clutches as her mind works against her on my telepathic behalf.

Her ire increases with my every successful evasion, and her patience runs out.

"Stop running, you coward!" she shouts as we come into a clearing. "And face me!"

My sympathy evaporates.

I come to a stop and whirl around, dropping into a low crouch.

She is surprised but quickly adjusts with an elegant somersault onto a nearby boulder.

Venom fills my mouth as I glare at her.

I am a gentleman, so I will not initiate engagement.

But when she comes for me—and she will—I shall end her.

And take great pleasure in it.

From her elevation on the rock, she studies me as her thoughts continue to darken.

"Why do you run?"

"I tend to flee when a lady attacks."

She is startled by the compliment but no more than I am.

"Is this a frequent occurrence, then?"

I do not reply, maintaining my defensive stance and focus.

She will not blindside me again.

Watching me with a disdainful eye, she licks her teeth, flicking her right incisor.

Awareness lights on her face.

The tooth is too sharp.

Her startled eyes leave mine to inspect her body, noting every change and enhancement, and her thoughts return to my earlier words.

"_You are a vampire."_

The malediction bounces around her mind as she catalogs all she has done and seen since awaking, and fear seizes her heart anew.

Her soft inhale makes me avert my eyes.

I should have delivered a gentler blow, used a rose petal or two.

She balls her trembling hands into fists, and her forced bravery quiets my inner beast.

Even he cannot harm such a spotless doe.

I slowly rise from my lowered position, pausing once, and she makes no move to strike.

She is lost.

I reach my full height, suppressing a foreign urge to coax her fingers out of their protective shell, settling instead for softening my gaze as I drag my eyes to hers.

The shimmering crimson nearly brings me to my knees.

"What has happened to me?"

Her voice is firm despite her terror, and a flood of admiration steals my breath.

But she thinks I am stalling.

"I asked you a question."

I use her irritation to diffuse my confusing emotions. "You are a vampire."

Her mind recoils, but she does not falter. "How?"

"Dr. Cullen found on you the street and brought you to our home."

"How did he find me?"

I hesitate.

I do not want to scare her any more than necessary.

"Edward, please."

Her plaintive plea pulls the words from my lips. "He smelled the blood."

A flawless hand flies to her mouth. "Did he try to kill me?"

"No." I step toward her, and she flinches.

"I'm sorry," I say.

She is embarrassed. "Don't be."

The urge to hold her floods my limbs, and my hands seek safety in my pockets as I continue. "He did not want anyone to find you in such a state, so he carried you to our home."

"On foot?"

"Yes."

"By himself?"

"We are rather strong." The corner of my mouth lifts. "Perhaps you noticed that when you threw me through the wall."

She almost smiles.

But she does not apologize. "Continue."

"Once Dr. Cullen brought you home, he laid you in the parlor to assess your injuries. There were several cuts and fractures not to mention all the blood. He…"

At the second mention of blood, Rosalie's hand slides down her chin to her neck. Her forehead creases as she grips the flaring column, her eyes aflame.

"My throat burns!"

"I know."

"Am I..." Her voice rises to a near-shriek. "I want blood, don't I?"

"Yes. And we can…"

Wild eyes return to mine. "Are we going to kill someone now? Is that why you led me out here?"

"Rosalie…"

She blurs back and forth across the rock, her thoughts racing away from her.

"That's why I can't go home. Because I would try to kill my parents! My parents, my friends, and anyone else I passed along the way. I would want to kill my own parents! My god!"

"Miss Hale."

The formal address gets her attention, and she halts her rant.

Long enough to glare at me.

"You did this."

"No." I maintain my stance. "Dr. Cullen brought you…"

"Both men," she mutters. "And all the same."

I flinch at the implication but remain silent.

It is unwise to antagonize a ranting woman.

That is, a ranting newborn.

Rosalie leaps off the boulder, noting the softness beneath her feet as she lands. She wants to inquire about her altered physicality, but the fire in her throat will not be ignored.

"You will feel better after you hunt," I offer.

"Better?" she sneers as she advances. "You think drinking someone's blood would make this better?"

I sigh. "Not some_one_."

"Then what?" She arches a perfect eyebrow. "Are you going to offer me a large squirrel or some sort of rabid raccoon?"

I say nothing, but my face must reveal the truth.

"I'm right, aren't I?" she laughs. "You drink the blood of animals! Oh, this is rich! The sweet little vampire family who fancies itself more humane because they kill animals instead of people. Well, what would you recommend? Chicken? Deer? I don't suppose you have any horse blood lying around…"

_Do not attack her. Do not attack her. Do not attack her._

"Afraid to speak, boy? Didn't your father teach that it's impolite to ignore a lady?"

I push my hands further into my pockets, quelling the desire to strike. "My upbringing is none of your concern."

"Oh, but it is." She is close enough where I can almost taste the musky jasmine of her skin. "Because I am here now and I cannot go home. Your father made sure of that."

I want to spit in her face. "He is not my father!"

"Edward."

I whip my head around to see Dr. and Mrs. Cullen standing in the clearing.

I refuse to read their minds or faces.

Rosalie's angry eyes dart between her maker and me, her proverbial hackles rising on instinct.

"Why don't you return to the house?" the doctor continues. "Esme and I will assist Miss Hale."

The latter smiles at me, but her thoughts are mocking.

'_Yes, run home, little boy. Let Daddy clean up your mess.'_

A tremor snakes up my spine, and my fingers tingle with the itch to attack.

"Mind your manners, girl," I hiss. "I am no one's boy."

Confusion mars her features, and she wonders if she spoke aloud.

_You are losing control,_ the doctor thinks to me. _Go home and reclaim yourself._

_Please, Edward,_ his wife adds. _You have protected her this long. _

I glare at Mrs. Cullen, and her husband's voice sharpens. "Go."

With a withering glance at the newborn, I walk past the Cullens at human speed.

I will not give her the satisfaction of watching me run.

Once her mind is out of range, I race toward the sanctuary of my room with a single determining thought:

Rosalie Hale does not exist.

**I know my updating schedule has been a little wonky, but I hope you're still enjoying this little fic. Drop me a line and let me know. I appreciate you all!**

**:) ladylibre**


	7. Chapter 7: Siblings and Strangers

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)**

**Chapter 07: Siblings and Strangers**

**Edward's POV**

The doctor knocks before entering my room.

He tries to conceal his thoughts as he assumes his preferred seat in the chair, but I know his objective.

"Edward, we need to talk."

I ignore him as I finish the third act of _The Taming of the Shrew_, Petruchio's psychology recently of great interest to me. I close my copy of the Bard's work and lay it on a side table. "About?"

"Your sister."

"As far as I know," I observe, "The late Edward Masen sired but one child. Is there something you know which I do not?"

The comment hits the mark, and his mind fills with a familiar refrain of regret. After all these years, especially after my rebellion, he wonders if changing me so young was the right decision. And the reference to my father only punctuates his guilt.

Pausing to tend his wounds, I earn but a brief respite from his nonsense. "I am referring to Rosalie."

"Oh. Well, you can see my confusion," I shrug. "She is not my sister."

He sighs, refusing to voice his annoyance. "But she lives in our home and deserves your respect."

In lieu of the curses that fill my mouth, I expel a long, heavy breath. "I have gone out of my way to be respectful."

He catches my double meaning but ignores it. "Edward, she's hurting. Losing her fiancé, her family, and her humanity in one night has been most difficult."

"I am sure." My eyes harden. "But who is to blame for that?"

Another sigh, this one bordering on exasperated. "I made the best choice for Rose."

"Rose?" I snorted. "If the thorn fits."

"Her injuries were quite severe," he persists. "They were far beyond any medical assistance."

"You would know."

His nostrils flare. "She would have died, Edward."

"Perhaps she should have."

He gasps at my reply, and his mind goes blank. "You should not play at being cruel," he says after a moment. "It is not who you are."

Our eyes meet for too long a minute, and I am forced to look away. The swift subject change unnerves me, and I am tempted to spill my sins just to prove him wrong.

But there is little sense in that.

One, because that's what he wants.

And two, because I am what I am.

Confession would change nothing.

But his refusal to see any evil in me softens my reply.

"I do not mean to suggest that Miss Hale deserved such a cruel end. But you did not have the right to thrust her into this life. She should have had a choice."

My assessment startles him. "Have you spoken to her?"

I walk toward the window, pleased to find a stubborn band of dark clouds overhead. "I have no words for her."

"That surprises me."

"Why should it?" I ask. "There is nothing between us."

"Maybe not." He comes to stand at the opposite end of the pane, hands clasped behind his back. "But she resents me for stealing her choice. And as you just voiced the same opinion, I thought that maybe you two were making progress toward…"

"It is a matter of logic," I interject. "You condemned a virtual stranger to this life completely ignorant of her feelings. Any buffoon would reach a similar conclusion."

"Esme is uncertain." He uncertainly glances my way, but I am focused on the sway of the budding trees. "She believes in the benevolence of saving Rosalie's life but sympathizes with her eternal inability to bear children."

"Does this soliloquy have a point?"

He turns toward me then, his mind carefully blank. "Rosalie thinks you hate her."

The non sequitur has the intended effect, and the truth slips out with my derision. "She does not think of me at all."

"Does that bother you?" he asks, the twitch of his mouth making me angry.

"Hardly." I cut my eyes at him as I make a decision. "I mean only to say that your assessment is incorrect."

"You should tell her of your telepathic abilities," he observes.

"Why don't you tell her?"

"She is out hunting with Esme, as I am sure you know."

"She'll return at some point." I lift my jacket from the arm of the chair. "I, for one, feel like taking a stroll."

He watches me in faintly amused silence as I walk toward my bedroom door, calling out at the last moment. "Edward?"

"Yes, master?"

Ignoring my tone, his mind fills with anonymous medical charts. "Never mind."

I nod, uncomfortable with his sudden secrecy, and quit the room, checking my reflection once in the parlor mirror before leaving the house.

I look as human as I'll ever be.

—B—I—

Rochester in the springtime is about as tolerable as any other place. The weather is temperate but moist, so an afternoon shower can never be ruled out. Watching flowers poke their heads out of the ground never holds any real interest for me, but I do appreciate the added fragrance they bring to the air.

In truth, I have little desire to be out of doors right now, especially with two fresh Shakespearean comedies awaiting me in my room. But I would rather throw myself on a raging pyre than endure another moment of the doctor's blathering about Rosalie Hale.

By trying to humanize that monster he created on a misguided whim, he thinks he is helping. But his muddled musings have the opposite effect.

They only make me loathe her more.

I tried to be civil.

I honestly did.

I sat with her during her change, never leaving her side for a moment. And although my motives were selfish, they had every appearance of proper gentility.

And then, once she awakened, I spoke with her kindly, giving her the space to adjust to my troublesome presence.

And more still, when she attacked me, I did not retaliate. Instead I took myself away from the house, trying again to explain her new situation with as much tact as I possessed.

And what was her response?

'_Afraid to speak, boy?'_

A fortnight has passed since my first and only encounter with her, but her voice still echoes in my head, baiting and berating me. And in spite of my full support of women's rights, it takes every morsel of respect Elizabeth Masen ever taught me to keep me from crossing the hall between our rooms and ripping her blonde head from her haughty neck.

The hall between our rooms.

The other source of my considerable ire.

A perfectly suitable room sits vacant and waiting on the second floor. It overlooks the forest, gives the best view of the lake to our south, and would be ideal for someone with feminine sensibilities.

But no.

The doctor's wife feels that her female progeny would be more comfortable near me.

In case you missed the logic, let me review:

Rosalie Hale hates every male alive with a red-eyed passion, yet Mrs. Cullen believes she would be more comfortable on the third floor near me.

I think her husband should have her committed, for she is clearly delusional.

I discovered the change when I returned from an extended hunt nine days ago. The bison in Canada have a different flavor than their domestic cousins, and the recent expansion of our little clan made me thirsty for a more exotic kill.

Before then, Miss Hale seemed reluctant to acknowledge our mansion as her home, and I had hoped to find her permanently removed.

But when I returned, I was dismayed to discover that she was not only among our ranks but lodging a mere five feet from my sanctuary.

I immediately took up the issue with the henpecked doctor who would never refuse his bride anything. He assured me that his wife was in earnest and encouraged me to "make the best of it."

His foolish mind added what his mouth did not, and I slammed the door of his study in a rage, satisfied by the answering sound of glass breaking. I continued to my room as if my floor-mate did not exist and have carried on thus in the several days hence.

They will not force my heart, no matter how relentless their tactics.

And Rosalie Hale will never be more to me than four annoying syllables.

I come out of my thoughts to see the clouds thickening above me. An hour among the humans should be enough to erase any lingering discomfort, and I can return to the house and the play in Padua.

A lovely brunette in a blue beret approaches as I enter the square. "Good morning, Miss."

Her shy smile widens as she passes. "And to you, sir."

She smells of ripe peaches and blackberries, and I fist my hand in my pocket to keep me from following her.

_This is good,_ I think as I continue down the street. _A literal baptism by fire._

Surviving the first gauntlet, I bob and weave my way through the thickening crowd, savoring without sampling the wide variety of scents.

Tobacco, talcum powder, and cedar.

Cotton, baking soda, and bay leaf.

Soil, beargrass, and lemon.

Venom floods my mouth faster than I can swallow, and I keep my darkening eyes down so as not to frighten anyone. Curt nods and tips of the hat suffice where words cannot, and I am pleased with my ability to abstain.

Perhaps a good walk is what the doctor should have ordered.

I am holding my breath to withstand the lilies and lavender of the redhead on my right when she abruptly looks up.

And the sight of her eyes knocks the very wind out of me.

I groan on the exhale as her blue-green pupils sear a hole in my chest.

She has no idea what she is doing to me, yet she refuses to look away.

"Dorothy!" someone calls from across the street.

The name reverberates within me like a long-lost song, and I fight my knees as they start to buckle.

As she waves to her friend with an answering smile, I amble away in the opposite direction, escaping before she can notice or follow. I do not slacken or breathe until I reach the sanctity of the woods near our home, praying that my steps have been human enough in their speed.

I cannot afford to be discovered right now.

Collapsing against a sturdy fir in the heart of the forest, I hyperventilate the thick verdant air, unable to stop the throbbing in my soul.

For although Dorothy is a stranger to me, her eyes are painfully familiar.

For they were shining in the mind of the last man I killed.

The memory weakens me to the point of exhaustion, and I fall to the ground in a useless heap.

I had cornered him in an empty lot behind a house of ill-repute, the stench of his wife's fear and blood fresh on his clothing. They had argued in the kitchen, a rolling pin his weapon of choice, and he'd plans to finish what he had earlier started.

But I'd had plans of my own.

He was listless as he stumbled from the brothel, his treatment of his ill-paid partner earning him disapproving looks from her matron. Told not to return, he was too sated to care.

Scratching his balding head as he turned the corner, he never saw me coming.

As I'd sunk my teeth into his sweaty neck, it was those blue-green eyes that lingered in his mind, their blind innocence distracting me from my task. I gathered that she was his young-adult daughter, a slight resemblance in the nose and chin, and I wondered what horrors those guileless eyes had seen.

But as they stared through me in the memory of his mind, they showed me what I truly was.

That by murdering a monster, however justifiably, I was the blackest fiend of all.

And that was the last night I'd taken a human life.

How has she come to be in New York? Her father's unsolved murder occurred two years ago and three whole states away.

Is she here on holiday?

Does she know that her father is dead?

Will I ever escape the sins of my past?

The final question haunts me as I rise from the ground, and with nowhere else to go, I return to the house. I have never thought of it as my home, but in light of today's confrontation, it certainly serves its purpose.

I trudge up the front walk, grateful for the solace awaiting me behind the door. A welcome emptiness greets me when I reach my room, and I cannot wait to succumb to its embrace. Dropping onto my black leather sofa, I close my eyes to ease the throbbing in my head and take a deep, cleansing breath.

And I grimace with a groan at the jasmine and black orchid that invade my senses.

I keep my eyes closed, but her emotional weight presses against me as she crosses the threshold.

"I need to talk to you."

Even the sound of her voice exacerbates my pain. "Go away."

"I am serious."

"As am I."

I feel a sharp kick where my feet are crossed at the ankles, yet I do not budge.

In spite of her surprise, her thoughts turn smug. "Still afraid to look at me?"

"More like disinterested."

Her pride has been wounded but only for a moment.

"Edward, come on." Her loaded sigh pries my left eye open. "I need you."

I should ignore her, knowing that her phrasing is deliberate.

I want to ignore her, believing that she sensualized her tone on purpose.

But my other eye has a mind of its own, and it opens to lay her before me.

It has been days since I last saw her in the cold, smooth flesh, and it takes all of my concentration to stare at her with indifference.

Of all the confounding creatures in the world, Carlisle had to bring me this one.

"Did you hear me?" She is unaware of my struggles. "I need your help."

"To do what?"

Her immaculate expression turns cold. "To right a wrong."

I pull out of her mind, wanting to hear it from her mouth. "What?"

"Mr. King and his friends," she says with a dangerous look in her eye. "I want them all dead."

**My laptop went on strike for the better part of this week, so I am a bit late in posting. I hope you enjoyed this longest chapter so far and that you're still enjoying my take on pre-canon Edward and Rosalie. **

**What do you think? Should Edward help Rosalie or leave her to it? Only one way to tell me…**


	8. Chapter 8: Rosalie's Request

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)**

**I had NO INTENTION of posting a new chapter so soon, but Edward and Rosalie had other ideas. Now that I'm done, I'll get to the reviews I've missed. Thanks for all the love! xoxo**

**Chapter 08: Rosalie's Request**

**Edward's POV**

I do not need the gift of telepathy to read Rosalie's mind.

Her anger and thirst for vengeance are painted across her flawless face as if in thick, black ink.

And her demand for my assistance equally so.

"I want them dead, Edward," she repeats. "And I want you to help me."

"Why?"

Her eyes narrow. "Why do I want them dead?"

"Why do you want my help?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, how could a boy like me be of any use against five men?"

I regret the baldness of my reply, but it is too late to retract it now.

Rosalie hides her surprise, and as expected, she does not apologize.

"Are you really going to sit there and whine about some comment I made two weeks ago?"

My gaze turns cold. "And do you really think insulting me is going to sway me toward your cause?"

"I don't need to sway you." She takes an elegant seat at the opposite end of the couch. "I already know what you'll do."

"Is that so?" I close my eyes again. "Enlighten me."

"You're going to do exactly as I say."

Her arrogance is amusing. "And why is that?"

"Because you don't want to disappoint the doctor."

I smile. "You overestimate his importance to me."

"Do I?" I feel the couch shift as she angles herself toward me, and I do not appreciate her unsolicited invasion of my personal space. "You act as if you hate him, yet you live under his roof, use his surname, and respect his requests. If you were truly disgusted by his civility, you would have left him a long time ago."

I realize that she doesn't know my history, that she hasn't bothered to inquire about me at all.

But a reminder of my rebellion is the last thing I need after my earlier encounter in the square with Dorothy.

The newborn has said too much.

And I want her gone.

I come to my feet. "We are done here."

"Edward, I need you to…"

"This conversation is over." I retrieve my copy of _Taming of the Shrew_ and return to the couch, fingering the bookmark at the start of Act Four. "Kindly shut my door on your way out."

I am focused on my book, so I do not see when Rosalie rises from the couch. But the movement is so swift that I believe she has taken the hint.

Until she plucks the leather-bound book from my hand and throws it through the window, arresting my full attention as the glass falls to the floor behind me.

"Do not dismiss me, _boy._"

I am in her face in an instant. "Do not patronize me, little girl."

"I am not a little girl."

She is primal and petulant all at once, and I chuckle. "You certainly throw a tantrum like one."

"I am asking for your help!" Her outburst startles me. "You know what those animals did to me, the atrocities they committed at my expense. Yet you stand there and dismiss my plea, refusing to help. What kind of man does that?"

Her eyes are pained as she waits for my response, and I run an agitated hand through my hair and turn away.

She is not my mate.

She is not even my friend.

She is nothing to me, and I owe her no explanation for my decision.

But her query is clawing at my insides, demanding a reply.

_What kind of man, indeed?_

I keep my back to her as stare out of the broken window. "I am not who you think I am."

"Who are you, then?"

She cuts me again despite her softened tone, and a jagged stream of self-hatred spills into my soul. "I am someone who can do you no good."

"But you can, Edward." She advances on me, laying a hand on my shoulder. "I know you can."

Her touch burns through the wool of my jacket and the cotton of my sweater, and I steel myself against the shiver that ripples across my back.

But it changes nothing.

"I cannot," I whisper.

"You can," she hisses. "But you choose not to."

She snatches her hand away, rescuing me from the flames, and I find it easier to speak. "Killing those savages will not satisfy you. It will not give you the peace you need."

"Don't you tell me what I need!" The force of her shout throws me back against the sofa, and she follows, leaning over me with blazing eyes as she pours out her fury. "You don't know what it's like to have a pack of drunken animals attack your body like a piece of raw meat. To have your modesty mocked and your chastity stolen while the man you love laughs at your tears. My skin may be hard and frigid, but I will carry their sickening stench in my pores for the rest of my immortal existence. And no matter what you may have seen or done since you stepped into this life, you have never experienced anything like that. So don't you dare presume to know what I need because you have no earthly idea!"

She is a hair's breadth from my face, her chest pressing against mine with every labored exhale.

I want to clarify my comments, to explain that I am helping her by not helping her, but my brain is otherwise occupied.

Her heightened emotions intensify her natural scent, and amid the raw chaos it unleashes in my mind, I am struck by a shocking fact.

I want her.

I want to fill my arms with the curves of her back, close the minimal gap between our bodies, and press my lips to hers.

I want to suck the bitterness from her mouth, to expel her demons with my tongue and touch.

I want to make her over and make her whole.

And I want to kill myself for the thought.

There can be no more unworthy woman upon whom to project such loathsome longings, and I am crippled by the depth of my depravity.

Cursing my existence from alpha to omega, I sigh heavily at my deplorable failings.

Rosalie closes her eyes, and a rumbling groan fills her mouth.

Afraid of what telepathy might tell, I assume she has guessed my sin and is preparing to destroy me.

And I relax at the notion, certain that I deserve to die.

'_Mmmm…he tastes like candy.' _

I gape at her in startled stupidity, thankful that she does not see me.

_She is tasting my breath._

_I just exhaled, and she is savoring the taste of my breath._

_This cannot be happening._

I slip inside her mind just as it curls around assorted images of my lips and hands, wondering how they would feel against her skin.

And her body warms at the thought.

I close my eyes, swallowing the answering groan that rumbles within me.

_I must be feverish with guilt._

_Or having a psychotic break. _

_Because this cannot be happening._

_Not between us._

_And certainly not now._

_Not after she has just spoken about her brutalization._

_It would be perverse._

_And pointless._

_In fact, I can think of few occurrences that would be less appropriate right now._

_And yet…_

I open my eyes at the sound of her lips parting and watch with total fascination as her gaze returns to mine.

"Edward..."

Her tongue sneaks out to swipe her bottom lip, and I want to sample them both.

But there is a greater want, a more pressing need.

Her explicit permission.

I will not act until I have it.

"Yes, Miss Hale?"

Her eyes darken to an impossibly deep shade of red at my proper address, and a growl escapes me before I can stop it.

She shivers at the sound, sending a corresponding tremor through my entire core.

I feel her in every plane of my body as she presses closer, her supple curves melting against my wanting flesh.

Her lusty eyes dip to my lips as my hands hover above her waist, my fingers itching to touch her somewhere.

Anywhere.

But still I wait, needing her to ask me.

The moment seems never-ending.

And then.

She whispers.

"Please..."

It is unavoidable now.

Madness or not.

Mine or not.

I will have her.

And relish every minute of it.

"Rosalie?" Mrs. Cullen calls from downstairs.

The interruption sends Rosalie flying across the room as I recoil against the couch, each of us landing silently as our chests heave in mutual shock.

"Come, dear!" the doctor's wife continues cluelessly. "I have something for you."

"I'm, uh…" Rosalie swallows hard to clear the thickness from her voice, her eyes unblinking as they watch me. "I'll be right down!"

We stare at each other in frustrated futility, trapped in the awkward suddenness of silence.

The Cullens know I am also home but believe that we are in separate quarters as always.

And they must continue to believe so.

Though her breathing has normalized, Rosalie's mind is so saturated that I can make out nothing useful.

She is a room of white noise.

I cannot let her leave things this way, so I hold up both hands and ask her to wait.

But Rosalie slowly shakes her head and retreats to my open door, her eyes burning me until she turns at the threshold and takes her leave.

I collapse at the waist, resting my head between my knees as I count her footfalls to the first floor. As the physical distance between us grows, Rosalie's mind becomes a readable flurry of emotions from regret to rage.

But for all their variation, they are united on one critical point.

'_Edward and I will definitely finish that conversation.'_

**Soooo...what do you think? **

**ps - If you're also reading "Serenity's Prayer," the next chapter (42) should be up by the end of the week. Thanks for your patience!**


	9. Chapter 9: A Near-Miss?

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)**

**A/N: So Edward and Rosalie almost kissed… or something. Let's see what's going on in his head.**

**Chapter 09: A Near-Miss?**

**Edward's POV**

Idling on the sofa where Rosalie left me, I run a shaky hand through my hair, resisting the urge to yank it out from the root. My body is afire with an unrequited sensation, one made more potent by its unfamiliarity.

Behind my weary lids, I can see my temptress with perfect clarity.

And the vision sends my unbeating heart into a gallop.

This is not good.

Not in the least.

"It's lovely, Esme," Rosalie says as she lifts the robe from the box. "Thank you for thinking of me."

"Of course," Mrs. Cullen beams as Rosalie holds the soft yellow fabric up to her body.

Her body.

The soft, sensuous body she was preparing to offer me not five minutes ago.

My eyes fly open, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

I am wrong.

Wrong in every possible respect.

And quickly losing the will to be righted.

"You know how these functions go," the doctor's wife says as her daughter follows her to the second floor master suite. "Carlisle charms, I smile, someone does something inappropriate, and we all go home and gossip about it until the next gathering."

"I remember them well."

"I'll bet you do," Mrs. Cullen laughs at her daughter's roll of the eyes.

Dangerous red eyes searing a hole in my soul.

Desire-filled eyes beckoning me toward a blissful shore.

The thought attacks my body, eliciting an involuntary groan.

_Calm yourself this instant._

_Do you want to be discovered?_

"May I help you get ready?" Rosalie asks with sudden interest. "I know my way around a brush and comb."

Esme doesn't notice the falsity in her cheer. "That would be wonderful!"

'_What is he doing up there? Does he know what his voice does to me? Do I know? What is happening between us? Did I imagine that just now? Could it be that… no! You said 'not now,' and you don't go back on your word. So focus on Esme and think about, I mean, deal with Edward later.' _

I cannot help but smile at her train of thought, engorging myself on her struggle.

"Will there be cocktails first?" Rosalie opens Esme's chifforobe, shaking off her thoughts. "You wouldn't want to be overdressed."

"I'm not sure. The late invitation was rather vague."

'_I should excuse myself. I should excuse myself, go upstairs, and deal with this…this whatever it is with Edward. Instead I'm hiding down here like a skittish child behind her mother's skirt.'_

In spite of my amused curiosity, I pull back from Rosalie's mind and try to reassemble myself.

Doubting I am fit for the task.

As I replay the previous six minutes in my mind, I am stunned by my selfishness.

Rosalie exposes her deepest wounds, and I respond with the need to kiss them.

Rosalie begs my help in taking her revenge, and I find myself begging for something else altogether.

I am a fiend.

A creature wholly unfit to exist.

I deserve such censure and more for my desires.

And yet…

'_Edward… please…'_

The breathy plea hovers about my face, baptizing me with the aroma of her allure.

And I am powerless to escape it.

I did not imagine her wishes.

She was under no compulsion to act.

A woman wholly in control of herself.

Yet she led me there.

Led me, met me, and left me at the first opportunity.

Is Esme solely to blame or had Rosalie been seeking an out?

The confusion churns in the pit of my stomach, nauseating me.

I should know better than this.

_Be_ better than this.

For even in the darkest crevasse of my soul, I do not believe any good could result from such...

Folly?

Entertainment?

Intimacy?

The last word sends an unpleasant shiver down my spine, sobering me considerably.

I can scarcely abide a twelve-second conversation with my so-called sister.

The prospect of sharing deeper sentiments is entirely reprehensible.

And yet...

My name on her lips.

The longing in her whisper.

I cannot forget.

Nor do I wish to.

And as the memory of her voice burrows deeper into my core, I become physically aware of the most unstable element in this situation.

An element my soul has yet to discover.

The element of lust.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that vampires are unacquainted with restraint.

(Save my unerringly moral maker)

If we bite a human, then we must drain her dry.

If we engage in battle, then we must fight to the death.

And if we dabble in desire, then we must consummate.

Consummate.

From the verb 'to consume.'

If I kiss Rosalie…if our lips meet for the briefest of moments…then I must have her.

Conquer her.

Devour her.

Consume her without apology.

An audacious spark of desire flares within my belly, and I shudder in dual response.

It is a power to be coveted, a thing to be feared.

Laying such a claim to Rosalie can be nothing but risky.

She is not my mate.

Barely my acquaintance.

But should I possess her, I would never let her go.

I would crave her incessantly, bed her indiscriminately.

Own her perpetually.

Exposing not only myself to the perils of dependence, but subjecting her to an eternity of subjugation, of being dominated by something robust and capricious.

And in so doing, even with her consent, I would be no better than a rogue stealing from her body what he does not want from her heart.

Were I to stoop so low, I would be no better than _him._

I turn toward the broken window, a new prospect forming.

I do not have to stay here.

I could run away.

I could flee this house and never look back.

I could send the Cullens a telegram from wherever I land.

Madagascar.

New Zealand.

Some place on the other side of the globe, to be sure.

I could say domesticity no longer suits me, that I have been seduced by the lure of adventure.

The seduction part would certainly be true…

The girls are finished now, the result of their cooperation most visible in Mrs. Cullen's sparkling eyes. Regardless of the night's outcome, she has already experienced its highlight.

"You look beautiful, Esme."

"Thank you, dear." She twirls in the mirror, eyeing the sheen on the fabric. "Do you think Carlisle will like it?"

"I think you could wear a grizzly bear carcass and Carlisle would like it."

Their feminine banter continues, and my frozen heart constricts in my chest.

Despite my infallible reasoning, I know my leaving again would cause Esme great pain.

Her husband would fare no better.

And their daughter…

What would she make of my departure?

Would she realize I am leaving to save her?

Would she know I am upholding my private vow to keep her safe?

Would she care I am gone?

I stalk toward the window, alerted to a notable hitch in Rosalie's mental resolve.

'_I wonder what he's thinking right now, if he's thinking of me at all. I wonder if I have been further abased in his estimation. Or if he truly despises me now…' _

My sense of serenity immediately recedes.

_Further abased?_

_Truly despises?_

Has my behavior reduced her to such musings?

"Are you sure you won't come?" The enquiry is all politeness; she knows it would be impossible for a newborn. "There will be a few young ladies your age in attendance."

"Thank you" comes the expected reply, "but I am sure to find sufficient distraction here."

"Indeed." Mrs. Cullen adjusts her shawl. "Perhaps you and Edward can distract each other."

We both flinch at her phrasing, though Rosalie must do so internally.

"The chess set is in Carlisle's study," Esme continues. "And I believe the playing cards are in the top drawer of the bureau in the salon. I do not encourage betting against Edward, but engage him as you wish."

"Thank you," Rosalie manages. "Perhaps we will try our hand at something."

"I hope you will, dear," the doctor's wife replies. "He can be difficult to read at times, but I think you could help each other or provide some temporary comfort at the very least."

Rosalie says nothing, knowing any reply would extend this monologue far beyond what is tolerable. But the double-entendre does not escape her notice, and she nearly gasps at her new mother's suggestion.

Although I am surprised Mrs. Cullen would speak so boldly within my hearing, her well-meant musings are the least of my concerns.

Rosalie thinks I despise her.

That she is demeaned in my eyes.

I concede that I have done little more than ignore her since our disastrous first conversation in the field.

And that repudiation may have had some negative effect.

But for her to believe I despise her is unspeakable.

And I cannot possibly leave with such a lie between us.

But how to amend?

If I reveal she is not the bane of my existence, would I not raise her hopes of something more?

If I confess I treat her harshly to protect myself, would she not then compare me to _him?_

And would I not deserve it?

This cannot be borne.

I must speak with her.

Alone.

As if in answer to my tacit wishes, the doctor's thoughts come into range. He should arrive within a few minutes and whisk away his bride shortly thereafter.

And then, we will talk.

I will talk to Rosalie and put this situation to bed.

A vivid image accompanies my word choice, and I swallow another groan.

_Perhaps I should rephrase…_

**Poor Edward! He is completely out of his depth with Miss Hale. What ever will happen next?!  
**

**Stay tuned...**


	10. Chapter 10: Unfinished Business

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)**

**Edward and Rosalie need to talk. Let's see what happens when they try…**

**Chapter 10: Unfinished Business**

**Edward's POV**

The click of the front door sounds in my ears like a thunderclap.

At last, we are alone.

Dr. and Mrs. Cullen turn their attention toward the night's festivities with scarcely a thought spared for those they left behind.

All well and good. The less they consider us, the better.

Rosalie has yet to set foot on the stairs.

I would have heard the creak.

Her thoughts fly toward me at an alarming rate, and I try without success to stay out of them.

She is confused, annoyed, embarrassed, and aroused.

But it is the latter feeling which vexes her most.

An affliction at which I cannot scoff, for I am equally as trapped and thrice as dismayed.

But my resolve is fixed and my reasons are sure.

Tonight I shall talk.

Not covet.

Not dream.

Not touch.

Not even if she asks me to…

'_Okay. I can do this. I shall go upstairs and… And what? What could possibly come after that shameless display in his room that would not mortify me completely? Would that I had accompanied the Cullens to their soiree.'_

I drag a weary palm down my face and pull out of her mind.

It is shameful to invade her privacy this way, even if my intentions are noble.

But I need to know what she wants so I can give it to her.

_And I really need to work on my phrasing._

With deliberation, she proceeds up the staircase and turns on the second floor landing. Entering her mistress's bedroom, she goes about dropping hairpins into their satchel on the vanity and returning discarded dresses to their place in the chifforobe.

Her thoughtfulness touches some forgotten recess of my heart. But I shrug it off, needing no additional reasons for admiration.

Putting out the lamp, she turns toward the third floor with an audible sigh. The sound is layered with gorgeous complexity, and I bite my lip to keep from responding in kind.

How is it that she undoes me so easily?

Are her allurements so potent or is it her novelty that woos me?

Dr. Cullen spoke fondly of his future bride prior to her descent on our lives, so she was his upon arrival and of no interest to me either way.

But Miss Hale is different.

She is the only woman I have ever looked at more than once.

The only one I have ever touched.

The first and only I have wanted to touch.

Though a fortnight has passed since I released her hand, I can still feel her gentle heat pressed against my palm. My fingers tingle with the memory of their proximity to the curve of her back.

And none of these musings will keep me on task.

_Focus, boy._

_Perhaps you can start by not using her favorite moniker for you._

_Damnable creature._

She has reached the top floor and idles there.

My body twists in distress as I wait.

Will she come to me?

Shall I meet her in the hall?

It would take but a quick peek to learn her preference, but I do not wish to rely on my gifts.

I want to approach this as an average immortal.

Although, if the stories from my maker are to be believed, the average immortal would have bedded her two weeks ago.

Another sigh from the hall brings me out of my reverie.

She is retreating to her room.

But she leaves her door open.

What does that mean?

Does it mean anything?

_Confound it all!_

Why must everything concerning this woman be so complex?

I do not recall Dr. Cullen experiencing such difficulties when his wife awoke from her mortal life. She was eager to please him, relieved to see his face.

But Rosalie…

She was comforted by my presence, initially.

Beseeching me with her words and eyes.

Until she chose to blame me for her immortality.

Does she feel that way still?

Or is this a temporary truce?

I come to my feet, staring at my bedroom door.

The distance between us now is laughable.

Even at human speed, it would take less than ten seconds for me to reach the threshold of her room.

Another precious few to enter her sanctuary, take her by the hand, look into her eyes, and…

And what?

I curse my inexperience as I realize I would have expectations to meet.

Perceptions of what a man should be and do.

But what could she think after her first brush with lust?

Surely nothing good.

Because of him…him and his band of bastards…she can only associate passion with pain.

She knows only the dark side of physicality.

And I…

I know nothing at all.

Stalking toward the window once more, the shadow of impotence darkens my mood.

I lean closer toward the ledge, heedless of the harmless glass littered across its edge.

It is not too late.

I may yet take my leave.

'_I am so ashamed that I can hardly face him. What must he think of me?'_

Her thoughts are impossible to ignore when they shout at me thus.

She has not voiced them, so I could feign ignorance upon my departure.

But to knowingly desert her in such a state…

I cannot do it.

'_Mother warned me against being too artful with my beauty. Did I lead him into temptation?'_

Your beauty does lead me there, and I am ever too happy to follow.

'_I was always shy around men. Is this wantonness a result of the change? Could it truly be that simple?'_

From the tenor of her thoughts, her education on this aspect of our nature is sorely lacking.

Perhaps I could teach her.

Another barrage of insinuating images floods my mind.

I am unfit to exist.

'_Perhaps my fianc- perhaps Royc- perhaps _he_ was right. Maybe it was my fault.'_

Do not believe so, sweet Rose.

'_Maybe I deserved what they did and worse.'_

Lies, lovely one. Lies, all.

'_Maybe I am just a common slut in ladies' clothes.'_

"In rags or finery, you are heaven-incarnate."

Her self-talk ceases as she processes my outburst.

Damn it all.

'_Was he talking to me? About me? Why, how did he do that? Have I spoken aloud?'_

As the questions mount in her mind, I face two choices.

I can say nothing and allow her to believe a lie.

Or I can be the person she thinks I am.

For all of my apprehension, it seems I am too stupid to choose the former.

"You did not speak aloud."

She knows I am addressing her. "I didn't?"

"No."

Her incredulous mind races ahead, seeking possibilities. "Then how did you do that?"

I swallow the lump of fear threatening to choke me. "I can read your mind."

She laughs. "What?"

"I am a gifted vampire." _Please don't hate me. _"And I can read your mind."

Her hand clamps over her mouth, muffling her reply. "I don't believe it."

I sigh, wishing she would relent this once. "Think of an absurd question."

"An absurd question?"

"Yes."

She mentally stumbles, unable to settle on one thought. _'How can I tell if a question is absurd enough?'_

"Because the answer will confound more than the question itself."

She gasps, the sound cutting through me. "Oh my go-"

"Rosalie, please let me…"

Before I can finish the sentence, she is in my room with her face inches from mine.

But I am not tempted to kiss her this time.

"How dare you invade my privacy?" she screeches. "Have you no shame? No sense of decorum? Or are you wholly unable to play the part of a gentleman?"

"Rosalie…"

"Don't you dare speak my name!" She turns abruptly away, running an elegant hand through her hair. The gesture is so raw that I close my eyes against it.

She is an effortless temptress.

"How long?" she grinds out at length.

"Since my change."

"No." Her exasperation forces me to meet her eyes, their red-hot fire burning a hole in my defenses. "How long have you been reading my mind?"

"It's complicated."

She folds impatient arms beneath her bosom. "Un-complicate it."

"I do not mean to hear your thoughts." I rise from the couch, our eyes still locked. "And since the moment you awoke to this life, I have made every possible effort to stay out of your mind."

I recite the Magna Carta in French to muffle her mental reply.

But the shifting of weight from her left foot to her right speaks loudly enough.

"You say you have tried not to listen since I woke up." Her voice beacons me despite its frost, and I move blindly toward it.

"Yes."

"So you stalked my thoughts while death scorched me alive?"

I pause mid-stride, dismayed by her diction. "'Stalked' is an ugly word."

Her gaze hardens. "Eavesdropping is an ugly habit."

"I was not…" I close my eyes and bite my bottom lip to quarantine my response.

Raising my voice will not help my cause.

Nor will it quell the feckless flames that her presence inspires.

With better control, I reach again for the truth.

"I first heard your voice during your change." I continue my journey toward her. "I had decided to ignore your existence altogether and had fled the room accordingly."

She neither gloats nor interrupts, her eyes guarded.

"Just as I reached my room, I heard your mind for the first time. You said, 'Make it stop.'" My mouth curls around the words, remembering how they penetrated my indifference. "Again and again, you pleaded. With God or with me, I didn't know. But I was powerless to ignore you."

The confession defuses her anger, and she unfolds herself. "What do you mean?"

"You were suffering so much."

I am moving closer still, my better judgment now forgotten.

"Tormented with agonies of all kinds."

We are but an arm's length apart.

"I couldn't let that stand."

She huffs, the perfumed air brushing my face like an accidental kiss. "But what could you do?"

My hand reaches for hers on its own accord. "I could do this."

She looks down and up again, her breaths quickening as our fingers entwine. "You held my hand."

"Yes."

"And you didn't let go."

My other hand makes its way to her cheek. "I couldn't let go."

I cannot tell where the shiver begins, if she or I is to blame.

But as my fingers glide across her silky skin, there is a shifting of earth and sky.

And we feel it together.

She clears her throat, and I take reluctant leave from her face. "But you read my mind."

"I didn't mean to."

She shakes her head, a frown toying with her mouth. "I can only imagine what you heard."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters if you…" She tries to turn away and notices our other hands are still joined.

And she halts in her escape.

Her eyes fly to mine, searching for relief.

And what she finds instead steals her breath.

I should free her from this.

I should let her retreat and abandon this foolishness.

But I seem incapable of rational behavior tonight.

"Don't."

Her eyes widen and her voice deepens. "Edward…"

"Don't let go of my hand."

She sighs but does not release me. "Please, Edward…"

"Please, what?"

Her eyes meet mine, and I am struck dumb by their longing.

I am dumb in every sense of the word.

The air between us thickens, and she trembles as I pull her closer.

"Edward, I need…"

"Tell me, Rose." The sobriquet slips off my tongue, darkening her eyes. "What do you need?"

She licks her lips, and I watch the words as she forms them. "I need you to help me kill my fiancé."

**I think after all of this, we need to hear from Rosalie, don't you? Next chapter, we'll see what's going on in that pretty mind of hers.**

**Say, reader… if you're enjoying this story, could you drop me a line to tell me why? Roseward isn't a ship most people like, and even though I PROMISE canon couples by the end, I'm curious about what draws you to them. Thanks so much! xoxo**


	11. Chapter 11: Is That Your Final Answer?

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)**

**I think it's high time we heard from Miss Hale, don't you?**

**Chapter 11: Is That Your Final Answer?**

**Rosalie's POV**

Disappointment sullies Edward's eyes. He does not expect my query, not in the least, and I feel a familiar need to nurse his emotions, mercurial as they are.

But I can't.

Not while those animals that attacked me still draw breath.

Edward stares at me without blinking, my words penetrating the heady haze around us. "This is what you ask of me?"

His tone is incredulous with a twinge of hurt, and I nearly falter. Although I have seen little of him since our confrontation in the forest, I am acutely aware of a pull between us: the way my body seems to feel his presence long before he comes into view, how I am calm and confounded every time he parts his lips to speak.

There is something here.

Perplexing though it may be.

The notion of hurting him, of minimizing the significance of this strange, beautiful boy is almost too painful to consider. He has been nothing but kind since my awakening, even when I insult and push him away. And I want to show him what that means, to show him in a way he will understand.

But the sharp image of a different man with sweaty hands and cruel intentions blocks my view of Edward's face, and I can see nothing but the desire to tear _that man_ to shreds.

So whatever this is with Edward must wait.

His rising eyebrows create stressful lines in his face, and I know he is reading my thoughts. But at the moment, with the memory of my defilement streaking across my mind, I am unable to care.

"Yes," I reply. "This is what I need."

Edward steps away, releasing my hand with such deference that tears spring to my eyes. As if a curtain has been drawn, his face falls into indifference. "I see."

His eyes turn to golden ice, and a shiver ghosts across my skin. I want to restore our warmth, to see those eyes dance with delight as I inch closer toward him and his marvelous madness.

But I cannot. Not until I have taken my five pounds of flesh. And I hope his disappointment in my emotional detour won't keep him from helping me.

His eyes widen, then a subtle shift in his posture as he softly snorts his derision.

_So much for not listening to my thoughts._

With a twitch of his mouth, he blinks and breaks my trance-like focus on his face. We are flirting with disaster no more, so my mask slides back into place. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Why should I?" He shrugs. "This is not my fight."

"You would allow this violation to go unpunished? To leave those dogs alive where they could possibly damage another young soul?"

He flinches, but his voice is grave. "I cannot take another human life."

"Another?" I latch onto the word. "There have been more?"

His nod is barely perceptible, but it wholly intrigues me. "Tell me."

A frown tugs on the corners of his mouth, and sympathy blooms in my breast. "Edward, you can talk to me."

"No."

I step toward him, unable to bear the distance, and reach for his hand. "Please?"

He watches as our fingers make contact once more, and I am literally shocked by the dynamic current between us. "I cannot."

"You can." I caress the back of his hand, his answering hiss softening my voice. "Whatever you have done, it is long past."

He is breathing audibly, the perfection of his scent billowing around me, and I inch closer as the moment stretches. "I would never tell," I hear myself whisper. "Your secrets are safe with me."

"Rosalie…"

"Yes?"

"Please…" He swallows loudly, his fingers twitching in my gentle grasp. "Please do not press me."

My curiosity is ousted by his rejection, and I release his hand. He rubs it against his pant leg as if to snuff the feel of my touch.

And now I am offended.

"Does this mean you will not help me?"

"It does."

His bald answer hurts, but I refuse to relent. "I ask you to help me avenge myself against the demons who raped me, and you refuse?"

He avoids my eyes. "I am afraid I must."

"Could you truly be so apathetic? Or are you just selfish?"

There is an instant sting of regret as his nostrils flare. "If I were selfish, I would let you pursue this fruitless folly without attempting to talk you down."

"Folly?"

"Murdering those men will not erase your shame," he says with more tenderness than I can bear. "The stain of their blood will taint your soul and poison the beautiful bravery that colors your definition."

I ignore the flutter his flattery inspires. "Selfish it is."

"If I were selfish," he retorts in a sub-audible snarl, "I would end this game and claim my prize."

His words are benign, but they arrest my full attention. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, if I were as selfish as you believe me to be, I would surrender to my basest urges and let nature rule me. If I were truly selfish, this tete-a-tete would have become wicked and wordless thirty seconds ago."

A hand flies to my mouth in shock, his meaning emphasized by his darkening eyes. "You mean, you would…" The vampiric equivalent of a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. "…take me?"

He bites his lip with a groan, the primal sound slicing the silence as he recaptures my eyes. "Without delay."

I blink against the truth his gaze reveals. "You… you would… force me?"

"Force y-?" He cuts off the last word as his eyes pinch shut. A harsh wind blows between us, and I feel its chill in the very marrow of my bones.

Edward is motionless for too long a moment, and when he looks at me again, his eyes are black as pitch. "You think I would force you?"

His tight whisper frightens me, and I clutch my heaving chest. "Did you not admit as much?"

He turns sharply away, his hands are trembling as they ball into fists at his side. "I am sorry to have wasted your time, Miss Hale," he says with perfect civility. "But I cannot help you. Please accept my refusal and vacate my room at once."

The erasure cuts me deep, but I will not let him see my sadness. I proceed toward the door with soundless steps and slam it hard enough to shatter its frame and leave it hanging off the hinges.

Edward curses aloud at my departure, the scathing expletive neatly obscuring my first sob.

—B—I—

Alone in my room, I peel off my clothes, heedless of the tear-induced stinging in my eyes. Esme told me immortals cannot cry, and my sorrow increases at the reminder.

Must I also be denied the relief of weeping?

I stand in my undergarments in the center of the room, trying in vain to recover my faculties. I can neither proceed nor retreat, and until my eyes are calm, I will be unable to see. Remembering Esme's gift, I find the robe and cinch it around my waist, holding myself there as my sobs subside.

Edward's breathing hitches as I sniffle yet again, and his ill-placed concern incenses me.

"I respect your refusal," I say, "so please respect my privacy."

His voice reaches between our walls. "Rose, I…"

"Please."

"I'm sorry."

I detect a double-meaning in his apology but choose to ignore it. There are more pressing matters at hand.

I glance at the clock on my chest of drawers and frown. Edward has cost me irreplaceable time, but if I dress quickly, I can make up the difference during my journey.

As I reach for the handle on the bottommost compartment, his voice echoes in my head.

_"Murdering those men will not erase your shame."_

The words themselves are not as vexing as their sorrow.

He speaks as if from experience, and the thought wounds me.

But then…

"_I would surrender to my basest urges and let nature rule me… This conversation would have become wicked and wordless thirty seconds ago."_

An uncomfortable heat spreads throughout my body and confuses the burn in my eyes.

I realize with a sigh that my mind has chosen its focus with no regard for my preference.

There must be another explanation for his words, for he cannot possibly mean he would demand my submission, that he'd take his pleasure against my will.

But then…

"_You would just… take me?"_

"_Without delay."_

What could be meant, if not that? Why would one need to take unless another is loath to offer? Esme says Edward is more puritanical than Reverend Smith, so I doubt he has experienced such sensuality, even as a vampire.

The notion is somehow enticing, and I force myself to ignore it.

But I have not imagined the fire in his gaze, the yearning in his voice when he whispers my name. His eyes must have seen things of which I have yet to dream, and the visions have left him bereft and haunted.

Could that be the trouble? Could there have been a woman, a woman with whom he formed an inappropriate attachment that resulted in heartache and death? And both tragedies at his hands?

I noticed the not-so-subtle glances between Carlisle and Esme when I inquired about Edward after my first feeding in the forest. There is more to his story than they know, and the deleted details are the source of his pain.

And as I recall my confusion at his earlier outburst, I realize the flutter in my chest was not one of fear but of anticipation, as if my body understood something my mind did not. More troubling still is the certainty that his clandestine communique was welcome.

Desired even.

I run a frustrated hand through my locks, the gesture reminding me painfully of him and what lies in ruins unfinished between us.

This is wrong.

I am wrong.

He would never violate me.

In any way for any reason.

And I hurt much more than his pride by suggesting otherwise.

That will not do.

But as I decide to go to him, the clock in the hall chimes, bringing me back to myself. As much as I wish it otherwise, Edward cannot be my priority right now.

He understands my plight, the depth of my need.

And he will forgive me.

Shoving the beautiful boy to the darkest corner of my mind, I open my bottom drawer and finger its contents with a slow smile.

_Showtime._

**What do we think of this first peek in Rosalie's mind? She's not quite done yet, so the next chapter will also be in her POV.**

**Things may be moving slowly, but Rosalie and Edward are very prickly, so we must be verrrry careful. Many thanks to those who are still with me and for the reviews! I promise things will speed up soon!**

**Until next time…**

**xoxo**


	12. Chapter 12: Night of Reckoning

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)**

**A/N: Thank you for your patience and support of my story. RL and editing my OF consume more of time lately, but I am committed to this story and promise to update monthly at least. **

**Special thanks to my wc girls: Jmolly for, well… everything, and nuttyginger and my favorite Ghostwriter for their help with the deets on Rosalie's attire. You gals ROCK in every conceivable way! **

**This is the longest chapter so far…ENJOY!**

**Chapter 12: Night of Reckoning**

**Rosalie's POV**

I turn out the lamp on my dresser and proceed to the hallway. Edward is in his room where I left him, and I sigh inwardly. There is no place for him in my life tonight.

As I emerge from the house and streak through the forest, I am surprised at my calm. I expected giddiness, anticipation even. But little emotion courses through me now, even less concern for unforeseen possibilities.

The only thing on my mind is me and the woman I should have been.

I always knew how people perceived Miss Rosalie Hale-beautiful, privileged, untouchable-and I enjoyed their superficiality to an extent. Being envied by women and desired by men had definite advantages, but most were intangible and useless. My goals were greater than amassing accolades and basking in adoration, but compared to the lavish lifestyles I was offered, they seemed almost primitive. I only craved a quaint house (with a parlor suitable for biweekly teas), a devoted husband, and a chubby baby boy with his father's eyes and my sense of adventure.

And to him who would bless me with such a life, who would value my happiness above his status or reputation, I would have given everything: the best part of my heart, the depth of my soul, the purest of my love. I had offered these treasures and more to my former paramour. And he cast my pearls before his porcine associates and made a mockery of my dreams.

We shall see who the swine is tonight.

When I awakened to this life and counted my losses, I initially decided not to avenge my attack. No pain I could inflict could restore my humanity. No words I could speak could contain my suffering, and as such, revenge seemed belated and unnecessary.

But that choice ensured they would never be punished. With their lone known victim lost to immortality, their depravity would go unchecked and likely unleashed on another innocent at a later date.

And I could not live with that for the next thousand years.

With the decision made, I turned to the issue of attire, as my appearance would convey as important a message as my actions. I strongly considered the coveted white gown in my favorite shop. The irony of ending his life wearing the dress in which I would have promised him mine would have been perfect. But the long skirt would have hindered my movements while the skimming silhouette too closely traced my frame.

Besides which, they didn't deserve to see me in my bridal satin.

But during midnight reconnaissance last week, I spotted a _Morocco _movie poster fading on wall on the outskirts of town. The romantic overtones notwithstanding, Ms. Dietrich arrested my attention because in the corner photo, she was wearing a tailored tuxedo. My otherworldly sight noted the smoke gray of her eyelids and the blood redness of her lips, and the image sent a deliciously defiant shiver down my spine. Her audacious eyes confirmed my convictions, and I sent off to collect the proper garments while the city slept unaware.

I copied her ensemble exactly—from the white bow tie to the matching pocket square—and added a ruby cocktail ring to the middle finger of my left hand. My hair was parted on a left-of-center slant and flowed in lush golden waves beneath my top hat. Red fingernail polish and rouge had been difficult to obtain, but the effect against my white skin was well worth it. And a silver cigarette case with one lone occupant was tucked in my jacket for my post-mission enjoyment. As I beheld my reflection in my bedroom mirror, I had never been more in love with myself.

Dull bells in the distance mark the hour, and I quicken my pace.

It will not be long now.

—B—I—

Although the grip of Prohibition is weakening in Rochester, respectable men still present themselves as its driest supporters. In public, they tout the letter of the law and disparage those who do not.

But while society averts its gaze, these gentlemen frequent a few fringe establishments where the liquor flows free. Here the judge and jokester are impossible to tell apart.

Mr. King and his merry men gather in such a place on this day each week under the guise of discussing articles from _LIFE_ magazine. I had been ignorant of this deception in my human life, believing each lie he told. But my plot made it necessary to learn the details of his schedule down to how often he visits Mr. Alston for a shave.

Thrice weekly: Monday, Thursday, and Saturday.

And if last week is any indication, they will be the first to leave, scurrying from the side door like vermin. They will take the narrow alley which empties onto a dark side street which leads to a forgotten artery of the main road. The long trek back to town provides sufficient time to invent believable threads of discussion should anyone ask for details of their evening.

And sufficient space for an encounter with a dead acquaintance.

My mind briefly recalls the beautiful boy I left behind, and my heart constricts. Perhaps I should have made amends before embarking on this seminal quest. Perhaps I should have explained my reasons, fully acquainted him with the rightness of my decision.

But it is too late now.

The quintet is in sight.

The hairs on my neck stand on end, and my hands clench as I watch them from my perch in a tree on the edge of the road. Although they are a literal mile away, I can make out their features with inhuman precision. My mind fills with images which turn my stomach inside out.

A gold cap gleaming beside an invasive tongue.

An unkempt beard scraping my bare breast.

Thin chapped lips smirking at my tears.

Greasy hair falling in my dirt-stained face.

And a groomed mustache twitching as he steals what I would have offered had he properly asked my hand.

A low snarl rumbles in my chest, and the quintet halts.

"What was that?" one of them slurs.

"Probably a stray dog," the second one says.

"Or a coyote," laughs a third man, tossing a rock toward my tree. It takes a tricky bounce against a lower branch and hits my right leg, leaving a dark blotch on my pants.

I might kill him first for ruining my suit.

Their conversation returns to its base origins, and I am sickened by their wickedness. How could I not have seen Royce for who he was? How could I have imagined him to be anything other than a scoundrel? How could I have deemed him worthy of my love?

A white-hot blaze of anger propels me from the tree, and I leap toward my prey. Pulling myself back, I come to a swift silent landing in the middle of the street. As their eyes are otherwise occupied, my arrival goes unnoticed.

Until the familiar stench of lust and sweat invades my nostrils and I growl again.

"That was no coyote," the first one says.

"Then what is it?" The third one asks. "I don't want to get mauled before tomorrow's date with Mildred."

"Maybe that guy knows," a fourth replies, and I draw a sharp breath through my teeth as he looks up.

I would recognize his voice in a crowd of millions.

His royal highness.

The King of beasts.

"Hey," the second one whispers too loudly, "have you ever seen a man with hair so long?"

"Not on his head," the first one snorts. "Maybe he's a clown."

"Hey, buddy!" Royce laughs as he turns to me. "Are you a clown or someth—"

The final syllable dissolves on the night air as he sees my face. My eyes remain red despite my human-free diet and take profound pleasure in staring him down.

"No," I say smoothly. "Guess again."

He stumbles backward into the gaping crowd, his mouth working soundlessly.

"I must have had some bad whiskey," the fifth man mumbles as he wipes his eyes.

"Perhaps you are having a bad dream." I extend a hand at human speed. "Shall I pinch you to see?"

"This is not…" The man flattens his arm against his body. "I mean, you can't be…"

"What's the matter?" I smile. "Are you not happy to see me? I came all the way here for this moment."

"Of course, we are!" the ringleader cries with a trembling voice. "We are surprised is all."

The fifth gentleman's eyes bug out of his head as he nods. "Yeah, surprised."

"Surprised?" I echo. "Why should you be?"

"Well," the fourth one stammers. "We, uh… we thought you had… um…"

"Gone Hollywood," the first one says. "You know, took your beauty on the road."

Their audacity stuns me.

"That's right," Royce smiles. "Hollywood."

My eyes narrow as they catch his tone.

He thinks he can charm his way out.

He honestly believes he will survive.

His asininity makes me laugh, interrupting his blubbering.

"Your voice…" Royce's face pales another shade. "It's so…"

"Different?" I take another step forward, my icy fingers eliciting a terrified shiver as they slide down his face. "Oh, darling. That is the least of it."

"You are still an angel," Royce gulps as my hand cups his chin. "Like something out of dream."

"A dream?" I shrug. "We shall see."

He tries to clear his throat. "How's Tinsel Town?"

"I wouldn't know." My fingers press into his flesh, testing the bones beneath. "I have never been there."

"No?"

"No." Their collective fear has become a living breathing thing. "Perhaps you should have invented a more suitable lie."

He grimaces as his jawbone yields to my touch. "Then where have you been?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I release him and leap backward into the air, somersaulting out of sight and landing behind them, replacing my hat on my head. "To hell where you sent me."

They cry out in shock and whip around to face me, their collective faces beautifully terrified.

"Hell?" Royce squeaks.

"Naturally." I stalk toward them with a glacial gait. "When you violate and brutalize a woman, leaving her battered body for dead, she makes a requisite pit-stop in hell before reaching her eternal destination."

The group takes a retreating step with my every motion, and I fight another chuckle. A chase would be most diverting. I would even offer a head-start.

"Eternal destination?" Royce glances at his cowardly companions. "You mean heaven?"

"No, silly. We are here together, and savages are not allowed in the Holy of Holies." I continue my advance, sending their panic into overdrive. "My immortal resting place is here on earth."

A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face. "What are you saying?"

"I have become Death, the destroyer of worlds," I smiled. "Fitting I think, as you destroyed mine."

Five pairs of glassy eyes watch with increasing alarm as my declaration reaches their ears. Their doubt is delightful.

"You do not believe me." I shake my head in disappointment. "Perhaps I should demonstrate."

A harsh oath escapes the first and tubbiest man, and he runs in the opposite direction.

"Harley!" Royce calls out.

"Stay away!" Harley shouts, the onset of panic quickening his steps. From the soggy sound of his labored breaths, it seems death might be a kindness. His poor health would end him within the year.

"I had hoped to do this without breaking a sweat. But what am I saying?" I chuckle aloud. "Demons don't sweat."

Royce hears my retort, and his skin further pales . "Harley, come back!"

"Save your strength." I lean over my former choice, and his mouth snaps shut. "You will need it." I raise my eyes to his fleeing friend, annoyed that he has fallen into a puddle.

My new slacks will get wet.

I fly to the stumbler's side before Royce can cry out again, appreciating the frightened gasps from the crowd when I lift their friend over my head with ease.

"And where are you going in such a hurry?" I repeat his words from the last night of my life. "The fun is only beginning."

"Please…" His bloodshot eyes widen as I lick my teeth. "Rosalie, I…"

I slam him to the ground with furious speed, hearing the satisfying _whoosh_ of air from his lungs as he is knocked unconscious. "Do not say my name."

"Mother of God." Royce whimpers from the other end of the street.

The wounded beast bleeds from the jagged gash in the back of his head. The liquored blood is ripe and flows with ease. And despite the deer I ingested this afternoon and my resolution to abstain, I bend to his broken body as venom pools in my mouth.

_Think of what he did to you, Rose! Do you want his essence locked inside your body forever?_

I am startled that my conscience has Edward's voice, but the thought effectively brings me up short. I hold my breath and count backwards from two million, relaxing as clarity slowly returns.

"Thank you," I whisper as though he can hear me.

"Good luck with that," the second man says to Royce, and my head snaps up.

"Anders," Royce whispers as if I cannot hear him. "We can take her if we stay together."

"This is not my fight," Anders replies tightly. "And I have a wife."

_The poor woman. She will thank me in the morning._

"I'm sorry," the fourth one adds as he follows Anders into the forest at a breakneck speed. "I wish you well."

"Wallace, Anders!" Royce shouts. "Don't!"

His concern for those animals incenses me, and I take off after them with a low growl. I am hard upon them in moments, their flight response no match for my unnatural abilities.

"Run!" Anders cries from a few yards ahead. "She's right behind us!"

"What does she want?" Wallace shrieks as he whips around a tree.

"I don't know!" Anders replies. "But I hope she—"

His thought dies on the wind as my fingers close around his wrist and yank him toward me. His arm pops out of his shoulder, and he screeches in shock. Indignation fills his eyes as his brain registers the pain, and before he can voice his anger, I club him over the head with his oozing limb. His arm bones shatter upon impact, and I drop the useless appendage atop his cracked skull. Wallace lunges at me in a poor imitation of an ambush, and I catch him by the throat in midair. With a mindless squeeze, I crush his windpipe and toss him to the ground.

"Now's our chance!" Royce whispers from the street. "She cannot follow two paths at once."

"What about Anders and Wallace?" the fifth man worries.

"Did you not hear their cries?" Royce spits. "She has claimed them."

"Do you think she is an angel of death?"

"I think you are a buffoon for fretting about that when she is upon us nonetheless!" He takes a few steps. "Play with your life if you must. I shall save mine."

The coward's steps reveal the direction of his flight, and I am unsurprised to find his companion alone when I reemerge from the trees. In spite of the fresh urine staining his pant leg, he tries to appear unafraid.

I admire his bravery.

"The cheese stands alone," I smile. "Where is your friend?"

"He had to go," he stammers. "But he left his regards."

"And you stayed behind to deliver the message?" My movements are practically feline as I approach him. "How thoughtful."

"Ms. Hale, please." He is too terrified to move. "I am begging you."

"Not very effectively."

"I know we hurt you," he says. "And I have barely slept a wink since."

I pause mid-stride, unnerved by his sincerity. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

"An apology would never be enough," he admits. "But I am truly sorry for how my actions may have destroyed your life."

His unfortunate phrasing erodes what sympathy might have taken root, and his eyes squeeze shut as mine turn to crimson frost. My fist connects with his jaw before I can stop it, taking his head off his shoulders. The oblong object hits the ground with a dull thud, and his body shortly follows. I shake out my hand, wishing I had brought a cloth on which to wipe my hands.

As the street falls silent once more, I take a moment to adjust my bow tie.

Four down, one to go.

**So what do we think of part one of Rosalie's revenge? **


	13. Chapter 13: Good Night, Mr King

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)**

**Chapter 13: Good Night, Mr. King**

**Rosalie's POV**

I expect to feel something as I stare at my latest kill, some sense of remorse or sadness.

But all I register is joy.

Sheer, unadulterated joy.

For I did this.

I avenged myself.

Victim no more, I am victorious, and it feels better than anything I could have imagined.

I suppress the roar of satisfaction rumbling in my chest, for one final move remains in this game.

I must dethrone the king.

It takes little time to locate his stench among the assorted smells of the town, its tobacco-laced musk seemingly stronger than the rest. I vaguely remember sneaking a sniff of his jacket once as we walked along the square, and the thought nauseates me.

As I take my time stalking his scent, it becomes clear that Mr. King has taken a detour from his normal journey. If he were on his way home, he would have taken a left on Elm and proceeded down the ironically treeless street until he reached his front door.

But tonight's path leads in a different direction, away from the sanctity of the house of which I once desired to be mistress. Tonight he heads toward the hotel at the center of town, thinking he has found a way to escape.

His machinations are amusing.

I pause behind a tree with the building in my sights, debating on how best to proceed. Though the hour is late and the street deserted, I can hardly waltz into the hotel so attired and retain my anonymity. A change of clothes would have been a prudent accessory, and I regret the lapse in preparation.

_This is why I wanted a partner, to remember the details I would not._

No matter. It is not the first time a man has let me down.

A part of my heart constricts at the jibe, knowing Edward's refusal was kindly meant. He believes his abstinence to be helpful, and I can respect his reasoning if not its impact on my plans.

_What will he think when he learns of my triumph? Oh, will he be surprised!_

A giddy giggle slips through my lips, and I cover my mouth with my hand, taking deep unnecessary breaths to sober my thoughts. There will be plenty of time to prance in pride for Edward.

An eternity, in fact.

The reminder of my permanently altered physical state brings me up short, and my murderous thoughts instantly return to Royce. Neither attire nor gender will halt my revenge, and should I have to burn the entire building to the ground, that odious man will die tonight.

I close my eyes and expand my senses, scanning the area for lurking humans. Hearing nothing but the whipping of wind, I ghost across the street to the back door of the hotel.

Royce's scent is nearly untraceable here, suggesting he entered the hotel from the front. With its bricked walls and centralized location, the two-story building might be the perfect place in which someone could hide.

Unless his harried voice gives away his every movement.

"Are you sure there's nothing on the upper floors?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. King," comes the nasally reply. "But two members of our cleaning staff fell ill this afternoon, so we only cleaned the lower rooms today."

I hear Royce's favorite expletive under his breath, the agitation in his sigh. "Fine."

"Shall I call the constable?" the clerk asks.

"Excuse me?"

"I do not mean to pry," the clerk confides, "but it is rather late for you to require a room, and you seem rather discombobulated. Is someone after you?"

"Don't be ridiculous." His laugh is too loud to be convincing. "I have come from a late meeting with some business associates and feel too fatigued to walk home. That is all."

"Well, then." There is the scratching of lead on paper and a jingle of a key. "Room 103. It is but a few steps from the front door, and I can guarantee its cleanliness."

"Very good." I want to claw him to shreds for his haughty tone. "Young man?"

"Yes, sir?"

I hear the rustle of a different sort of paper as it is folded and pressed into a palm. "Would you see that I am not disturbed by anyone for any reason? I would like to enjoy my stay in complete peace."

"Yes, sir, Mr. King!" The clerk stuffs the bill into a pocket. "I will personally ensure your privacy."

Royce takes eight steps, turns slightly right, and inserts the key into the lock on the door. Which means his room is on the periphery of the simple, sparse lobby and within eyeshot of the desk. Slipping past the receptionist would prove no great task, but if the cowardly cretin has barricaded himself within the room, my entrance would cause a ruckus.

I must find another way.

Sneaking around to the side of the building, I note Royce's odor is getting stronger. As I pass below a window, I can hardly contain my glee.

The dolt has chosen a room with a window.

_Could this be any easier?_

There is little light in this part of the alley between the hotel and the bank, but I need none as I peer into the room. A tall chifforobe leans against the far wall, casting a strange shadow across the floor. Atop the matching nightstand is an ornate lamp which seems at odds with the complicated wallpaper. Under normal circumstances, I would take issue with such an abuse of pattern, but the cowering figure in the center of the bed arrests my attention.

Royce sits against the headboard fully clothed with his knees pulled into his chest. His beady eyes are fixated on the door as if afraid the boogeyman might come knocking. If I weren't so incensed by the sight of him, the situation might be funny.

He has yet to glance away from the door, and I consider drumming my fingers against the window to frighten him further. But I am weary of this charade and would like to go home. There I can take a leisurely bath, wash my hair, and slip into something soft and welcoming like my new bathrobe.

Or my handsome non-brother's embrace.

The thought makes me shiver, and I shake it off, needing to focus.

I have toyed with my prey long enough.

Slipping my fingers between the bottom of the window and the sill, I shove the glass upward, climb through the opening, and shut the window before Royce can turn his head.

When he sees me leaned against the frame, his mouth falls open, and he tumbles off the bed in a blind panic. Pressing his back against the door, he watches me with startled eyes, his chest heaving with each breath.

"No," he mumbles. "Please, God. No."

"Praying, are we?" I tilt my head. "That's a first, I'm sure."

He bites his lip as he feels behind him for the doorknob.

"I wouldn't do that." I glance between his fumbling hand and his face. "We wouldn't want anyone else involved."

His hand grips the knob in spite of my warning, and my eyes narrow. "Let go of the door."

"Please don't hurt me," he whimpers as his fingers slowly relinquish their anchor. "I'm begging you."

"There's no need to beg." I push away from the window, careful not to break the sill. "We are old friends, are we not?"

"Friends?" he squeaks.

"Of course, darling." The pet name scratches my tongue as I stalk toward him, and his Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. "We have much history, you and I. There is no need for our reunion to devolve into incivility, is there?"

Confusion clouds his eyes, and relief shortly follows. "So you're not here to kill me?"

"Oh, no. I am here to kill you." The color drains from his face at my lighthearted admission. "But I shall retain my humanity while I do it. Humanity." The word makes me chuckle. "That's a good one."

"Please… don't…"

"Don't what?" I whirl on him so quickly he falls to the ground in surprise. "Don't take what is mine? Don't finish what you started? Don't do what an angel of death is created to do? You expect far too much of me." I glance at his eyes, remembering how I once dreamed of them. "Then again, you always did."

"Rosalie," he stammers. "My sweet, precious Rose…"

I drop to his side and fasten my hand over his mouth, recoiling at the sensation of his breath against my palm. "Say my name again, and I will tear out your tongue with my teeth." I flash him a smile. "And they are more than up for the challenge."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he murmurs against my hand. "I just… I, I… I need to…"

His frantic mumbling grates on my sensitive hearing, and I contemplate sliding my hand to his throat and crushing his useless windpipe. "Not another word," I hiss. "Do you understand me?"

My thinning patience penetrates his fear, and he falls silent as his head bobs up and down like a child's toy in water.

I reluctantly release his face, and he moves his jaw back and forth, testing its functionality. I pace the room with my back to him, idling in irritation about what to do next.

Any number of objects in the room will accomplish my purpose—not that my hands are insufficient—but I am weary of drawing blood. Human bodies are messier than I thought. Perhaps I was naïve in my belief that this process could be relatively clean. I do not wish to overtax the hotel cleaning staff, but they do get paid to launder linens, after all.

As the moment of truth arrives, I consider leaving him alive for a while. Now that he knows I can get to him no matter where he goes, he will not have a moment's peace until he sees me again. I could toss rocks at his window at night, surprise him at his club while he relieves himself in the men's room. I can watch his gradual descent into madness, reveling in the power of holding his pathetic life in my hands. There is a possibility that he might leave town and force me to follow him across the country, but I have eternity on my hands. What else might I have to do?

"Wh- what do you want?"

Although he whispers, his question erodes what remains of my temperance, and I whip my head around to face him with a quiet snarl. "What do I want?"

"I'm sorry. I'm so…" he mutters as he backs toward the bed. "You told me not to speak, and I tried to be silent, b-b-but there's got to be something I can do…"

I capture his eyes with mine as I take my time walking toward the bed. "Something you can do?"

He presses himself against the headboard as if trying to disappear within it. "To make amends for what I've…"

"Make amends?" I carefully set my knee upon the foot of the mattress so as not to break it as I crawl above him. "You dare presume such a possibility after what you did to me?"

His tongue darts out to lick his chapped lips, and my fingers twitch with another urge to yank it from his mouth. "I-I-I was drunk and stupid, Ro- … uh, Miss… um… and I just…"

"You were drunk?" My voice is barely audible over his labored breathing.

"I made a mistake, and I…"

"A mistake?" I lean over his body, and he slides down the pillows to lie on his back, his mouth moving without sound. "You took from me what I can never recover and reduced me to endure a soulless infinity without love, companionship, or the hope of ever becoming something new. And you have the effrontery to ask me what I want?"

His eyes ever widen in his face as I plant my fists on either side of his head and hover over his trembling frame. The sound of his quickening heart beat roars in my ears, increasing my anger as my head inches toward his. Our faces are a whisper apart, and the sour taste of his breath taints my words.

"I will tell you what I want, Royce Thomas King II. I want you to hurt. I want you to fear for your life as its most sacred parts are ripped away from you. I want you to suffer a fate worse than death at the hands of someone you thought you could trust. And I want to sit back and relish your spectacular demise. Can you give me that, darling? Can you grant me that one last wish?"

I watch his terror-struck eyes as they stare at me unblinking, feel his rigid body as it lies trapped beneath mine. And in that moment, I am ready to end his life.

But as I raise my hand to crush his skull, I notice his chest has stopped moving. There is no sound from his mouth where his exhales should be, and his eyes no longer seem to see me.

Odd.

I rise to my knees to take a wider view and realize the truth with a start.

My mission is complete.

Royce Thomas King II is dead.

I barely touched him from the moment I entered the room, yet he now lies dead beneath me.

I come to my feet and survey the damage, frowning at first. I would have preferred a more painful and prolonged finale for my chief tormentor, but as he no longer walks among the living, I can have no quarrel with the result.

Royce is dead, seemingly because my presence took his breath away.

An unexpected smile curls my lips as another thought flits into my brain.

_Royce is dead because I scared him._

_I literally scared him to death_.

I clamp my ring-free hand over my mouth to quarantine my hilarity.

_I scared Royce to death! _

_My very presence took his breath away!_

_Wait until I tell Edward! I told him he was worried for nothing._

Shaking my head at the bronze-haired boy's absurdity, I fetch my top hat from where it landed on the floor, slip out of the window, and make my way toward the house, joyful and triumphant.

—B—I—

I can hardly hide the spring in my step as I dance through the woods. My unnaturally heightened senses seem even more aware of everything around me—the soothing dampness of the earth, the secret busyness of the forest nightlife, the scent of spring growing more audacious as May descends.

But my heart, that elusive part of me I thought I'd lost somewhere on the threshing floor, is bursting. Stronger than pride, bigger than joy, I feel…

Alive.

Alive for the first time in this wretched existence, and I am in the mood to celebrate.

Remembering the reward I stashed in my jacket, I retrieve the silver cigarette case from my inside pocket. I tap its lone occupant against the top of the case as I have seen others do and prepare to light it.

But as I reach for the lighter, a familiar scent caresses my senses: the scent of an endless winter where glaciers are laced with sugar, its innocence undercut by a profound complexity.

A grin breaks across my face, and I prepare to regale him with details of my success.

But as he emerges from the trees, I recall our most recent conversation and realize there are amends yet to be made. And I must be the one to begin.

I tuck the cigarette into my pocket before he sees it and fold my hands in a gesture of contrition. Meeting his eyes would be impossible, so I focus on his shoes as I prepare to speak.

Yet something in the air steals the words from my lips, and I force myself to look up.

Edward's golden eyes are ablaze with rage, and something akin to panic lurks within their depths. His lean body is taut, coiled as if to spring, and I am momentarily stunned by the sight.

It is unlawful for a man to be so flawless.

Edward flinches, and my confusion mounts until I remember his telepathic gift.

_Oops._

Recovering from the slip, I open my mouth to clarify, but his sharp intake of breath cuts me off.

"Rosalie Hale, what the hell were you thinking?!"

**Well, Rosie's revenge is done, but someone doesn't seem too happy. I wonder what's wrong with him…**

**Just in case I don't get out another chapter before the New Year, THANK YOU for making 2012 the best year of my life so far. Your support and enthusiasm for my writing truly touches my heart. BIG THINGS are coming for Edward and Rose very soon, so stay tuned!**

**Merry Christmas to all and to all a Happy New Year!**

**xoxoxo**


	14. Chapter 14: A Moment of Clarity

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)**

**A/N: HAPPY NEW YEAR, Readers! You guys made 2012 the best year of my life and I can't wait to see what's on tap for 2013. This chapter was complete last week, but as I inadvertently used up all my data on Christmas, I had to wait a bit to post it. Gotta love me!**

**Anyhoo, here's Ch14, the longest one so far. Hope you enjoy it!**

**Chapter 14: A Moment of Clarity**

**Rosalie's POV**

"_Rosalie Hale, what the hell were you thinking?!"_

Edward's outburst startles me such that I only stare in response. He runs an agitated hand through his hair, liberating a few silky strands. I watch them float away on the night breeze, wondering where they might land.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes, though your tone confuses me. Did I do something?"

"I am sure you did," he accuses as his eyes rake my body from top hat to toe. "_What _is the question."

His bold appraisal pleases me, and I sweep a hand down and away from my body in a genteel bow. "I have been to town, sir."

"Do you think this is a joke?" When I stand up, he is in my face, his flared nostrils blowing their fury all over me. "Do you have any idea of what you've done?"

I step back to distance my success from his sullenness. "Edward, I realize women wearing trousers is still taboo, but in our situation, you can hardly be concerned…"

"Trousers?" His roar rumbles through my chest like an angry locomotive. "You think this is about trousers?"

"Why else would you be so angry?" But the words scarcely leave my mouth before I regret them, and my tone softens. "Although when I think about my earlier accusation, I realize I have much to apologize for."

"What?" The question is a startled breath, and I feed him the answer in my mind.

"I had no right to think so ill of you," I say aloud, "and if you cannot forgive me, I would only ask…"

"Think no more of that." His gaze is as earnest as his voice is soft. "A misunderstanding with no harm done."

"Because you would never hurt me."

"Never."

"Nor I you."

The moment changes shape as our eyes lock and reload the events leading to our earlier skirmish. Again I feel the force pulling me toward him, even as I am standing still, and I wonder at its strength. _Is this the nature between male and female vampires or is there something else at play? And if it's the latter, do I want to know?_

He blinks, his eyes darkening slightly, and I smirk. "I do wish you would stay out of my thoughts."

"I cannot seem to help it. You undermine my restraint at every possible turn."

His words have a double meaning, but their tone shifts again. His confusing ire has returned, and I stare at him in expectation. "Well?"

"You have not answered my question."

"Question?" I think back to the start of this engagement, marveling at how strangely time passes in his presence. "You want to know what I did tonight?"

"Yes."

"You know what I did tonight." I adjust my pocket square, feeling his laser-like focus on my hands. "I made my intentions clear when we spoke in your room."

"So you did it." The fury is back, sending prickly shivers up my spine. "You killed those men."

"A loose definition of the word 'men.'"

"Did you kill them, Rosalie?"

He snarls my name, and I am incensed by his abuse of it. I step into his precious personal space, enjoying his uneasiness. "Every single one."

"How could you be so reckless?"

"Reckless?"

"Did you take no thought for how your careless actions would affect the rest of us?"

My voice rises with my outrage. "Careless?"

"Do you honestly think we can stay here much longer after your little stunt? Do you think it would be wise for us to remain after you so thoughtlessly…"

"How dare you?" I shove him against a nearby tree, uprooting the young sapling from the ground. It falls with a sad crash as Edward's reflexes keep him upright. "How dare you trivialize my triumph in the name of your pettiness? You berate me with name and reduce my revenge to a self- indulgent tantrum while judging my concerns unworthy. Is that your way of not hurting me?"

He flinches, a low groan following. "I do not intend to scoff at your pain."

"Then why can you not be happy for me?" My voice betrays my need for his support, and it is my turn to cringe.

As if equally discomforted, Edward palms the back of his neck, and I press my momentary advantage. "I was raped, Edward. Violated by five different men in the most inhumane way, and tonight I avenged myself on them. I made my pain their pain, my fear their fear, and did so without drinking a single drop of their repulsive blood.

"I did that, Edward, and I am inexpressibly proud of myself. So please don't ruin it."

My chest heaves in spite of my resolve to remain calm, and I avert my eyes to hide my shame. _How easily he renders me undone!_

I feel him closing the space between us but cannot meet his eyes for fear of what I might see.

"Where did you leave them?"

"What?"

"The bodies, Rose." He handles my name with care. "Where did you leave the bodies?"

Though the words are plain, I cannot make sense of them. He reacts to my silence by taking another step toward me.

"You killed five men tonight, yes?"

I nod senselessly.

"Where did you take their bodies?"

"Their bodies?" A sharp gasp punctuates my understanding, and my hands fly to my face. "Oh, no."

He coaxes my fingers from my mouth, his eyes intense. "What, love?"

"I…I didn't take them anywhere. I just…I took off after Royce because he was the last one, and I was so pleased after scaring him to death and wanted to tell you about it that I never went back to…to fix or remove their bodies, and oh my go— I left them where they died."

His fingers close around mine as he clasps my hand. "Show me."

With a trembling nod, I fly toward town, my mind frantic with the possibilities.

There is no way for the murders to be traced back to our clan; the lack of witnesses and evidence ensures that. But the brutality of the crimes will make the townspeople more suspicious, and the handsome doctor who never seems to age might very well find himself the subject of undesirable scrutiny.

I don't particularly care for Dr. Cullen—his theft of my humanity is difficult to forgive—but I would not wish any harm on his sweet wife, a woman I have come to care for in these short weeks.

And where might such a situation leave Edward? He has no ties to the doctor and his wife and would not be obligated to remain with them should a sudden departure be necessary. Would he stay with them? Would he go off on his own?

And if he chose the latter, would he want a snarky companion with whom he shared an intensely unpredictable connection? Or would he walk away and forget I ever existed?

Edward stops running without releasing my hand, pulling me backwards at an alarming velocity. My body slams into his, and his free hand steadies me at the waist. His grip is stronger than necessary, but I cannot regret the heat seeping into my flesh where the pads of his fingers rest against me. We are less than a wish apart, and I find that I do not mind.

I do not mind at all.

"Blood," he grunts.

I can barely hear him above our labored breathing. "What?"

"I smell blood. Are we near?"

I shake my head to clear the fog his nearness inspires and take in my surroundings. The trees are familiar, but it is the stench of homemade pomade and cigarettes which answers Edward's question.

Wallace.

The one who liked to pinch.

I brace myself for the crippling rage that accompanies the mention of my attackers, but it does not come.

Strange.

Then I recall the night's success and relax, expecting the earlier euphoria. Wallace and the boys are dead at my hands and cannot hurt me anymore.

I should be relieved, thrilled even.

But the reminder of the animals' slaughter turns my body against me, and for the first time since my change, I feel the urge to vomit. My hands wrap around my stomach as the discomfort mounts.

Edward steps toward me, but I hold up a hand to keep him at bay. I do not like him seeing me this way, and knowing his telepathy will betray my secrets only increases my uneasiness.

"Yes." I rise to my feet. "Come."

We soon find the bodies of Wallace and Anders. Edward inhales through his teeth but makes no other sound, removing from his shoulders a large knapsack I hadn't noticed before.

He sets the bag at his feet, his eyes evaluating the scene. "You said there were five."

"Two are in the street," I mutter, the abdominal churning becoming more pronounced. "Royce is in bed at the hotel."

"In bed?"

"On top of it. He climbed onto the bed to get away from me."

He looks around without meeting my eyes. "Stay here."

While I resent his presumptiveness, I take a seat on a relatively dry stump.

He glances at me once more and disappears from sight, taking the bag with him. As his cool scent lingers in the air, I rest my elbows on my knees, palming my forehead as the sickening feeling rises in my stomach.

Is this guilt? Could I feel guilty for ridding the world of that parasitic quintet?

No. They deserve what they got and more.

If anything, I wish Royce's death had been a product of my design, that it had been slower and more elaborate. I'd barely begun to punish him.

Is this fear for what might happen to the Cullens?

Maybe. But after a few centuries of living, I'm sure the wily Dr. Cullen has escaped a scrape or two.

Another wave of nausea rolls in my belly, and I put my head between my knees to stave it off.

_Why do I feel so vile?_

Closing my eyes, I let my mind run free.

I see myself lying uncovered on that cold, deserted street a few weeks ago. I see the moment when I realize they have finished with me, the moment where I come to expect death.

And as I stare at myself in retrospect, I see what has happened.

Tonight is the official ending, the severing of the final ties to my human life. And that being so, I must accept a truth I have denied since awaking to immortality.

I will never see my family again.

The knots in my stomach tighten with such force that I cover my mouth. I may be able to stop the shout, but it is too late to stem the tide of emotions crashing within my soul.

I will never again see my family.

I will never again hear their voices or create new memories with them.

I will never again mimic my mother as she curls her hair within an inch of perfection, striving to earn her unconditional approval.

I will never again witness my brothers' delight as they run through the house with their latest finds: an obscure coin, a chocolate confection, a small stone for their collection.

I will never again watch my father unfold the paper at the breakfast table after his third sip of coffee, a ritual so reliable I could set my watch by it.

Watch.

The queasiness becomes a sharp pain as other images flood my mind.

My father's pocket watch.

My mother's jeweled hair combs.

My brother's bolo bats with the worn-out strings.

Our family portrait above the fireplace.

Grandmother's china on display in the hall cabinet.

I will never again see these things because I will never again see them.

For all I gained in taking the lives of those men tonight, it did nothing to give me my human life back.

It is lost and gone forever.

"Rosalie?"

I am so lost in my thoughts I do not notice Edward has returned and finished his task. At his feet is a large cloth sack cinched at the top with knotted leather ties. He watches me as I come to my feet, his eyes fraught with worry.

"Are you ready?"

I clear my throat, tossing my melancholy aside. "For what?"

He indicates the bag. "To dispose of this."

The earlier frustration returns in triplicate. Yet another detail that slipped my mind. Where on earth would we deposit such a thing?

"I know a place." His voice soothes my irritation, relaxing the knot in my belly enough for me to breathe. "Follow me."

Edward hoists the bag on his shoulder, waving me off when I offer to take the knapsack. Though the rough fabric is opaque, my superhuman eyes notice the face pressed against the inside of the bag.

Harley's bulbous eyes frozen in fear.

I do not look at it again.

I mindlessly follow Edward as he runs toward the west, my legs moving of their own volition. Perhaps he is running more slowly than before or my mind is weary of the night, but our journey seems long. Or perhaps when eternity stretches before you, everything seems long.

How will I ever survive the monotony? Can a vampire go mad with boredom?

_Why didn't that blasted doctor let me die? I could be in glory with Grandma Lily, gliding with the angels in a state of blessed, perpetual youth. Instead I'm stuck down here until Armageddon ends the earth, and then what will become of me? Will I simply succumb to the flames as another pile of ash or will my spirit soar to the heavens and reclaim the place it long ago lost?_

"Rosalie."

Once again, Edward's voice startles me, and it takes me a moment to regain my composure. From his posture and tone, he has been trying to get my attention for some time. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I'm going to get rid of this. You can stay here if you'd like."

As I have no clue of his plans, I take a seat on a nearby boulder.

"Maybe you should have that cigarette now," he says before turning away. "I think you've earned it."

The lilt in his voice is forced, but I appreciate his effort. "Right."

I reach into my jacket as he speeds toward the lake. As I glance around, I realize where we are.

This is where he brought me after I woke up.

After I tried to kill him.

The fire sparks to life, and I light the slim, white stick, slipping it between my lips. Sucking in a slow, deep breath, I feel the smoke fill my lungs and wonder why a human would ever do this to themselves. But the look of the exhale is fascinating, and I take another drag, lost in the smoke as I recall the first night of my new life.

For all of my outward serenity, a palpable fear clawed at my insides as the doctor and his wife watched me. Waking up in strange clothes in a strange room was bad enough. But I felt alien in my own skin, as if I no longer belonged to myself, and the sensation disturbed me greatly.

From the start, the doctor incensed me with his impertinent appraising. I could tell he meant well, but his prying eyes were too much to handle, so I demanded his departure. His wife was compassion incarnate and did what she could to calm me, but I was a mess. Terrified, overwhelmed, and unable to find my emotional footing.

Until I heard the voice from beyond the door.

The voice that cooled the fires during my change.

The velvet voice promising not to ever hurt me.

The voice of reason keeping me from taking Harley's life tonight.

The voice of my salvation.

"It is finished."

As if on cue, Edward walks toward me, swiping some dirt from his pants and hands.

Soiled by my choices.

Because he came to my rescue.

"Those vermin will never be found."

In spite of his belief that I was making a wrong choice, Edward came to my rescue.

He took upon him the literal dirt of my deeds and did so with alacrity and without derision.

"And Royce will not be a problem."

He did what Dr. Cullen did not.

What my father could not.

What Royce would not.

"After I closed his eyes and covered him with a blanket, he appears to have died in his sleep."

I pull on the cigarette again, exhaling slowly. My thoughts are focused on curlicues in the smoke, but my heart is dazed and distracted. As I stare at Edward through the blue-grey haze, I feel as if I am seeing him for the first time.

Just as he saw my distress and saved me from it.

Saved me as no man before him ever has.

And in this new light, he emerges more than a man.

He is my hero.

Edward drops the knapsack at his side, unnerved by my silence. "What happened, Rosalie?"

I blink as he waits for an answer, my feelings too riotous to name.

"You don't have to tell me," he continues softly, "but it might make you feel better."

_You make me feel better._

_You made it all better._

_You saved me._

He does not react to my thoughts, and when his hand runs through his hair in frustration, I realize he is forcing himself not to read my mind.

For that alone, he deserves a reward.

"I might be the last person you want to talk to…"

I snuff the end of the cigarette with my fingers, tossing it on the ground.

"…and I may not have been the most supportive of your decision initially…"

I scoot off the boulder and walk toward him, enjoying the play of emotions on his face as I land in front of him.

"…but I never meant to belittle your feelings or make you…"

And his words come to a stop with the rest of the world as I cup his face and bring his perfect lips to mine.

**Soooooo… what do we think?**

**ps – We return to Edward's POV next chapter.**


	15. Chapter 15: First Kiss

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)**

**A/N: As some of you weren't happy with the kissie-cliffie, hehehe, here is chapter 15 hot off the presses!**

**Chapter 15: First Kiss**

**Edward's POV**

In fifteen years of this life, I have been surprised but a handful of times.

Not merely owing to my gift, but mainly because people are predictable.

Mind-numbingly so.

But on the few occasions when someone catches me unawares, the event is seldom beneficial.

Never welcome.

Let alone seminal.

Until now.

Until this.

Until _her._

Rosalie.

One minute, I am flailing in my attempt to earn her confidence.

One minute, I am apologizing for refusing to assist her with her earlier plans.

One minute, I am more hindrance than help.

Then I watch her advance from the rock, expecting her to slap me for tarnishing her celebration with my opinions.

I note when she stops in front of me, thinking she plans to assault me with that terrifying sub-vocal whisper she reserves for her strongest anger.

I see her hands as they cup my face, confused to feel cherished when I expect to be chastened.

And then…

A wisp of pressure, softer than an angel's sigh.

Warmth against my lips like a slow-spreading fever.

The faint taste of jasmine mingling on my breath.

And the shocking realization that Rosalie is kissing me.

_Rosalie._

_Kissing. _

_Me._

Will wonders never cease?

Her lips are sure as they press against mine, searing their intentions as she holds me in place.

Though her mouth is closed, she opens her mind, and I am captivated by what I see.

A kaleidoscope of colors and swirls, their peaceful sway lulling me into submission.

As if have any thought of resistance.

With no need to breathe, we could stay forever locked at the corner of Impossible and Indescribable.

But she pushes gently away and opens her eyes, their emotions shining like red diamonds in the serenity of her face.

"Wh-what did you…" My fingers run across my lips, already missing her. "Why?"

"How did you find me?"

Her breathlessness catches me off-guard, confusing me further. "How did I…"

"Find me?" she repeats, coming impossibly closer. "How did you find me?"

"I followed your scent."

She fingers the length of my jacket's lapel. "_Why_ did you find me?"

"I was worried about you."

"Why?"

"We had…" I clear my throat, dragging my focus from the feel of her hands on my chest. "Our earlier quarrel left me uneasy, and I owed you an apology."

"But when you spoke, you were so angry."

She continues her journey around my collar, stealing my train of thought. "I was."

"Why?"

"Because I… I was scared."

"Of?"

"I didn't want you with those men," I grind out, fighting a shiver as her fingertips brush across the back of my neck.

"Did you think they would hurt me?"

"No."

"Did you think they would escape?"

"No."

"Then why were you scared?"

She idles in her chosen spot, rendering me incapable of speech as I close my eyes. "Safe."

"What was that?"

The ache in her voice raises my eyes, now blazing with the strength of my feelings. "I wanted you to be safe."

Her pupils soften to a rosy red. "I was safe. Because of you."

I shake my head, loosening her hand from its position. "No."

"Yes." Her palm cups my cheek once more. "You saved me, Edward."

Her gratitude ignites a million flames in my chest, but I cannot accept their warmth however much I long to. "I left you alone when you needed me most."

"You came for me when I needed you most. You kept me from draining Harley. You protected me from the consequences of my hastiness. And it was you here, before, who eased me into this unholy life."

She strokes my jaw with her thumb, her voice lowering still. "It was you, Edward. It has always been you."

"Rosalie…"

"It was you, Edward." Her breath caresses my face. "And I want… I need to… just…"

I answer her plea with my lips as her hand drops to her side with a sigh. She is wild honey and heat, baptizing me in sensations I can scarcely name as we kiss for the second time.

I savor the lush perfection of her mouth, pressing gently against its plush softness.

In but a few moments of exquisiteness, her flavor is as familiar as my own, and my mouth quite literally waters with thirst.

I swallow the venom as I retreat for breath, needing a moment to clear my head. But she advances as I pause, and we dance again.

Patience guides as I sample her mouth, but a dangerous need lurks beneath its innocence. The urge to consume her rises with each push and pass of our lips, but she is the crown jewel of creation and worthy of worship.

I must delay.

The warmth of her breath singes my face as I pull back and note with pleasure that her eyes are still closed. I caress her cheek with the back of my hand, and she rewards me with a sigh.

A sweet prelude to another kiss.

She tilts her head and parts her lips, the deeper notes of amber and black orchid flooding my senses. The raw taste of her proves too much, and I force myself away from her.

She opens her eyes with a gasp. "What's wrong?"

Her voice is thick with desire, stealing the breath from my lungs.

"Was I too much?" Shame coats her words, defiling the heat between us. "Was I…"

"It isn't you." I force my eyes to hers and drown in their need. "It is never you, Rosalie."

She looks away. "Yet you toss me away."

Her plea melts my reticence, and I blur to her side. "I would never."

Our eyes meet again, recharging the moment.

"Do you…" She glances at my lips. "Do you not want me this way?"

I groan in spite of myself. "In this and every other possible way."

"Then why?" Her voice cracks on the last word. "Why do you stop?"

"Rosalie, I…" Frustration crosses my brows. "I don't know what to do."

The corners of her luscious mouth lift. "Mustn't there be a first time for everything?"

In spite of my anxiety, I laugh. "Although I am indeed a novice in such matters," I smile, "it is not my chastity to which I refer."

"Then what do you mean?"

The moment has arrived, and I wonder if I have the courage to proceed.

But her fearlessness emboldens my tongue, and I force my fear aside.

"Rosalie, I need to… I want to be with you." I tremble with the effort not to touch her. "But this is… you are… I…" I curse under my breath, unable to make my point.

She lifts my chin. "Tell me."

As our eyes meet, she pulls the truth from my mind as if she were the gifted one.

"This desire you unleashed… it is boundless, primitive, and terrifyingly so. I could happily drown in you and never come out."

"I know," she whispers.

I chuckle. "Am I that obvious?"

"No," she hesitates. "I feel it too."

Again, she steals my breath, and my hands clench at my sides to keep from attacking her.

"You feel it?"

She nods, averting her eyes. "And I understand now… what you meant before."

"Before?"

"When you said you would take me," she whispers, innocence coloring her words. "You meant you would do so… _with_ force…not _by_ force."

"Yes."

She nods, and the look on her face sends another wave of pleasure across my skin. "I want you to take me, Edward."

_If I were human, I'd be a blushing, quivering mess right now._

_Mostly quivering._

"I want you, Edward." She licks her lips, quickening every fiber in my dead body. "More than I can understand at the moment. But…"

The conjunction saves my life and returns me to rational thought. "It is too soon."

"Yes," she says sadly. "I fear it is too much too soon."

"And I agree."

Relief brightens her eyes. "Do you?"

"As sublime as such intimacy would undoubtedly be, it would also be a bit… premature."

The last word leaves my lips as a question, and she frowns. "I see."

"No, no." I take her hands. "I am not rejecting you. I want to know you better, Rosalie. To become more to you than a floor-mate."

"You are."

I ignore the flare of pleasure her words create, determined to allay her fears as I press my point. "Then I would like to build on that. I will begin by lifting my embargo against your company and attempt to have a civil conversation lasting more than a few minutes. Then perhaps we will be ready for more mature situations."

Although it takes a moment, her eyes sparkle with mischief. "There was an embargo?"

"A rather difficult one to sustain, but yes."

"Why, Mr. Masen." She surprises me with my surname. "I didn't know you cared."

"I'd had it on good authority that I didn't," I murmur. "But once again, you have proved me wrong."

She smiles, rubbing her thumb against the back of my hand. "Edward?"

"Yes, love?"

The endearment slips from my tongue, but her blush reveals her pleasure at it. "Will it be difficult for you to abstain? I have already intruded on your perpetuity and have no wish to be any additional trouble."

"Miss Hale." I lift her hand and press my lips against her wrist. "You are the very best kind of trouble, the kind warranting forever to explore and tame."

She arches an eyebrow. "Tame?"

"Perhaps."

She laughs, the rich sound filling the space around us. "You're an ambitious one, Mr. Masen."

"That I am. Ambitious and patient."

"So you will wait?"

I kiss her lips again, softly sealing my promise. "_We_ will wait."

She returns the favor against my cheek. "Thank you."

I can only nod as my face burns where she kissed me, the heat warming me from head to toe.

"Now what?"

I bent to hoist my knapsack on my back, my free hand still clasped in hers. "Now you will tell me where you got this outfit."

"This old thing?" She glances at me slyly. "Do you like it?"

I hold her eyes longer than intended, confessing once more. "I like it all, very much."

"Good." Her eyes twinkle as she grins. "For there is more where this came from."

I kiss the back of her hand, unable to keep my lips from her skin. "One can only hope."

We walk hand-in-hand toward the house at human speed. And as she flutters beside me, the prospect of eternity is suddenly not so wearisome.

**Soooo… what do you think of Roseward's first kiss? Where do you think things will go from here?**

**I have two Roseward recs I think you'll really like:**

"**Minuet in F you Major" by LightHeartLoreli. In this completed AH fic, Edward is a perfectionist conductor and Rosalie is the newest cellist in his orchestra. Will they make beautiful music together? Read and see!**

"**Under Gravestones" by AHughAndCry. Although only two chapters in, this pre-canon imagining of Ed/Rose has one of the best Edwards I've ever read. I cannot wait for the next update!**

**Until next time!**

**xoxo**


	16. Chapter 16: Siblings at Play

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)**

**I am so very sorry for the delay. After we finally eradicated the MALWARE issue we've had since Christmas, I found it difficult to nail down Edward's emotions/mindset. **

**Now that he's talking to me again, let's see how things stand with Roseward since those fateful first kisses…**

* * *

**Chapter 16: Siblings at Play**

**Edward's POV**

"You are rushing me," she says without looking up.

"I am not."

"I feel your eyes on me," she insists, her brows furrowed in concentration. "And that makes me feel rushed."

"I had hoped you would feel something more pleasant than rushed."

Her mouth clamps shut, fighting a smile as she glances at me from across the table. "You are distracting me, then, which is equally bad."

"My apologies, Miss."

"You are forgiven." She returns her attention to the board. "Now hush and let me think."

An easy silence falls as she stares down the smooth wooden pieces, and I marvel again at the sudden strangeness of my life.

It has been seven days, a half-fortnight since that night.

The night Rosalie changed me.

Physicality aside—though that in and of itself deserves eternal enshrinement—the night is significant for more philosophical reasons.

To wit…

"_You saved me, Edward."_

I still cannot wrap my mind around it.

She cast me as savior, as protector.

Not burden or barbarian.

Not even as nuisance or usurper as I had expected.

To her, on that night of firsts, I was the hero.

_Her _hero.

At first blush, the sincerity of her confession was rivaled only by its absurdity, and I'd had every intention of refuting her claims by insisting upon my baseness.

Until her eyes stopped me.

Their naked need unraveled my hesitation and rendered me useless for anything but another kiss.

This one doubly sweet as it confirmed the first.

In blessing me a second time, she proved to be inspired by something greater than gratitude, something intangible to which I have yet to put a proper name.

I have replayed each moment, recalled our tenderness with perfect clarity, yet the nature of its origins alludes me still.

Ordinarily such ignorance would reduce the event's significance to the petty and trite.

But when I remember her lips against mine, that indescribable balance of innocence and sensuality, I am flooded with a heat so terribly raw that it makes me afraid.

It is this fear that saves me from a state of perpetual arousal.

That and my vow of patience.

She trusts me to wait, and I will not disappoint her.

But the fear isn't strong enough to keep the desires completely at bay. And when alone, I let them wash over me, happily drowning in the memory of that night.

The night Rosalie changed me.

With a satisfied huff, my temptress rouses me from my musings and makes her move. I tilt my head in appreciation before rolling the die and bearing off another two of her pieces from the board.

Her fist strikes the table. "You are cheating!"

"I am not. I cannot know which numbers the dice will yield."

"Yes, you are." She leans back on the settee, preparing to pout. "You are reading my mind after promising you wouldn't. It is why you continue to best me in such a simple game."

Her ungracious losing is somehow endearing. "Would you like me to explain the rules again?"

"No, I would not." She crosses her arms beneath her chest. "I would like you to stay out of my head."

"I promised I would do so, and I am a man of my word." I look up at her. "Do you trust me?"

She unfolds her arms and arches a perfect brow. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether or not you behave yourself."

She's doing it again, using that deliberate doublespeak where she thinks and speaks the words at once, amplifying their impact.

It is impossible not to retaliate.

"Define 'behave.'"

Her rosy eyes flash. "You are playing a dangerous game."

"I thought backgammon was safe. Nothing like checkers with its pieces mounting one another."

"Edward!" Her hand flies to her mouth in mock shock. "Is that how you speak to a woman?"

"Not at all." My surprise is as strong as hers that I have spoken aloud. "I must have taken temporary leave of my senses."

"Indeed." She studies me as she scoops the dice in her left hand. "You should apologize."

"I am sorry, Miss Hale."

She is unimpressed. "Surely you can do better than that."

"All right." I meet and hold her eyes as I lean over the game board. The rattling rhythm of the dice falters as I lean over the game board. "Forgive my inexcusable lapse in decorum."

She is silent as I capture her hand and bend to it, my face hovering above her skin. "May I?"

There is an intake of breath then its slow release. "Yes."

I lower my lips to the back of her hand, pressing against it with gentle intent. Her skin is warmer than I remember, softer than I can comprehend, and I sigh escapes me before I can stop it.

She gasps, and I freeze, afraid my poor self-control has pressured her.

But she soon relaxes and whispers my name in kind.

I raise my eyes and find a smile, and I intend to bend to her hand again.

But the dilation of her pupils catches me off-guard, and I am lost in their crimson tide.

The game between us is now forgotten as she releases the dice and cups my face. She strokes my cheek with the pad of her thumb, and my eyes flutter closed. Her touch is as gentle as an angel's kiss, yet my skin is aflame beneath it.

My dead body awakens as she brings my face toward hers, and I brace myself for impact.

"_I think Carlisle is right to include them. It is only right, as this affects them as well."_

I stiffen in Rosalie's grasp, and she frowns. "What?"

"Mrs. Cullen approaches."

Rosalie looks toward the window. When she catches the distant footfalls, she drops her head. "Perfect." Her mood is as sour as mine. "What is she thinking about?"

"Family meeting this evening."

"How diverting," she says with an elaborate roll of her eyes. "I suppose she should not find us like this."

"I suppose not."

I wait for Rosalie to remove her hands from my face, and she does…

… after planting a quick kiss on my mouth.

"Come." She grins at my startled expression. "Let us play something chaotic that will send her upstairs."

I watch as she rises from the settee and makes her way toward my piano, the heat from her lips still simmering against mine.

"Today, Edward," she tosses over her shoulder.

I come to my feet, commanded by her wish.

Immortal or not, Rosalie Hale might possibly be the death of me.

—B—I—

Her hands caress the ivory keys as we share the bench, and I am mesmerized by her technique and her selection.

'_What?' _she smirks at me mentally. _'A well-bred gal can't enjoy a minor chord?'_

I hide my amusement in a snort and away from Esme's ears. Rosalie and I agree that whatever it is blooming between us must remain just that.

"Not for shame," she clarified upon our return seven days ago. "It's none of their damn business."

I had never heard her use such language before.

And I enjoyed the vulgarity far too much.

'_How nice to see them getting along,' _Esme coos as she makes her bed. _'I knew it would work between them, given time.'_

I nudge Rosalie with my elbow and raise my eyes to the ceiling.

She nods her agreement. It is time for a squabble.

In the midst of Rosalie's playing, I sigh heavily.

"What is wrong with you now?" she snaps.

"You played the wrong note."

'_Oh, Edward...' _Esme thinks to herself. _'Please don't ruin it.'_

"I did not!" Rosalie runs through the sequence again as Esme idles above us. "It concludes in A-flat."

"A-flat? Are you at all familiar with his work?"

"Oh, I see. Because I am a lady, my understanding of such matters cannot possibly compare to yours."

She narrows her eyes, their intensity burning me from the inside out.

'_You're supposed to fight back not make kissy faces at me.'_

Ignoring her sudden smile, and I resume my place in our play. "_Lady_ is a generous term, is it not?"

"How dare you!" She slams the fall board over the keys and pushes the seat away with the backs of her legs as she stands. "Who are you to speak to me in such a way?"

I rise to meet her, my nose inches from her face. "I have no need to explain myself to the likes of you. This is my piano, and I have every right to question anyone who lays her unproven paws upon it."

She screeches, the discordant sound snaking down my spine. "You insufferable, obnoxious, unbelievably arrogant…"

Esme is at the threshold of the room in an instant, her chest heaving. "Rosalie! I… I have something about which I need to speak to you privately. Edward, would you mind quitting the house for a moment?"

I glare at Rosalie one last time. "With pleasure."

Esme nods at me nervously as I storm out of the front door, and I consider slamming it for emphasis. Their thoughts compete for my attention as I head toward the edge of my listening range.

'_It is unkind of you to speak to Rosalie in such a way, Edward. And you should have let her play the song as she wished. I thought it was lovely.'_

'_Nice touch, referring to my paws... I nearly laughed aloud! But do you really think them unproven?'_

Though the teasing is clear in the first part, I come to an immediate halt when I catch the uncertainty in the second, cursing my carelessness.

She is wild and unshackled and a worthy adversary in all things.

But I must take care of her emotions.

I rest upon a nearby rock, my mind fixated on the enchantress I left at home.

In the seven days since Rosalie changed me, I have learned a great deal about my nonsister.

A term she coined and enjoys.

For one thing, she is more cerebral than anyone suspects. Her mind is labrynthian and insatiable, and what seems like irritation is an impatience for knowledge. Though she enjoys the privileges of her considerable femininity, she envies what she deems "the masculine advantage."

For another, she is fiercely protective of the remnants of her human life: retiring nightly just after twilight, performing her evening toilette, even lying in bed as if to sleep.

Most surprisingly, we have much in common beyond our genetic code and current address.

She is a brilliant musician with a unique ear. Contrary to my earlier insult, her improvisation on the piano solo was nothing short of inspired.

Her fascination with the burgeoning automotive industry eclipses mine and is more remarkable besides as it centers on what lies beneath the hood.

And like me, she resents the good doctor, though for very different reasons.

"My life was not his to change, even in the interest of saving it," she seethed the other day. "He had no right." The vehemence of her feelings prevented me from sharing the secondary reason behind his decision.

I shall tell her. Just not yet.

The doctor's wife she does not mind as much, enjoying the superfluities of female companionship. But she is disinclined to take Mrs. Cullen into her confidence.

If not for my telepathy, I may not have earned the privilege.

"You already know what I'm thinking," she said the morning after that night. "I haven't the energy to block you perpetually."

Ironically she prefers to speak to me mentally, finding great amusement in my reactions.

'_Juliet is an idiot.'_

'_If I were to light up a cigarette, would the doctor's head explode from the shock of it?'_

'_Pity foxes are so small. I'll bet their blood is as desirable as their fur.' _

'_Good night, sweet Liam.'_

I heard that last thought three nights ago after she retired to her room. She usually invites me into her mind with a demure clearing of her throat, but on this occasion, I mistook a stifled cry for a summons.

Her youngest brother's cherubic smile was bright in her mind, and I immediately pulled out at the sight of it. 'William' is his given name, but she calls him otherwise out of affection. He is beloved by everyone he knows, but his sister is his favorite person in the entire world.

And the feeling is more than mutual. She loves him maternally, completely.

Eternally.

I shall not admit to my accidental eavesdropping for fear of embarrassing her, but her familial longing still gnaws at my frozen heart.

The sound of an approaching car brings me out of my Rosy reverie, and I recognize the doctor's thoughts. I wait until he passes before rising from the rock and returning to the house.

—B—I—

The doctor sits across from me in the living room, his thoughts guarded as Rosalie enters from the salon. Her face reveals none of her amusement regarding her conversation with Mrs. Cullen.

'_Your perch atop the pedestal is safe,' _ she tells me. _'Although appalled at your "unseemly conduct," Esme assures me you are the best of men and worth getting to know better. I am beginning to believe she desires you herself.'_

I gasp aloud at the notion, earning me a curious look from my master. "Is something wrong?"

"No." I ignore the laughter in Rosalie's mind. "Just lost in my thoughts."

Rosalie winks as she passes behind the doctor, and my eyes say what I cannot. _'You will pay for that.' _

She understands my glare, and her tongue darts out in reply. _'Do your worst. I'm not afraid of you.'_

Her insolence delights me, and I paste a scowl on my face as she sits across from me, folding her hands neatly in her lap. _'You may openly despise me now.'_

I snort aloud, earning a disapproving glance from Mrs. Cullen as her husband calls us to order.

"Thank you both for coming," he says. "I realize you have other things to do."

"We have a decision to make," his wife interjects, "and I thought it best made together."

Rosalie says nothing, and I roll my eyes. "Well?"

"We have been in Rochester for seven years," Dr. Cullen begins, "much longer than we usually stay in one place. But circumstances prevented us from leaving sooner, and…"

"Your point?" I ask before he can mention my four-year absence. _Rosalie should hear about that from me…_

"It is time to leave."

"Leave?" Rosalie echoes. "As in leave Rochester?"

"I'm afraid we must," Esme says softly. "Our agelessness is impossible to hide anymore."

My nonsister nods, but her thoughts are in frantic disagreement. "Of course."

"And this is why we wanted to speak with both of you," Dr. Cullen continues. "We would like your opinion on where we go next."

"You steal my humanity, but you can't pick a new city?"

Esme gasps at the outburst though her husband appears unsurprised. "Rosalie, I am sor…"

"Do not placate me with belated apologies, Father Cullen." She sneers the moniker, her eyes like red flint. "You made your choice."

The pain in her voice makes my chest ache, and I grip the sides of my chair to keep from crossing the room to hold her. "What are our options?" I ask instead.

He glances at Rosalie before addressing me. "We haven't been to Europe as a fam- er, as a group, so England is an option. So are a few cities in Germany and Russia. And there's always…"

"I am not leaving this country," Rosalie says in a low, taut voice. "I am already condemned to the underworld. I will not surrender my citizenship as well. Beyond that, I don't give a damn what you do."

She rises from her chair and quits the room, and my eyes cannot help but follow. Dejection mars the elegant line of her shoulders, kindling my anger toward the doctor. This is his fault entirely, and Rosalie is correct not to let him forget it.

Esme comes to her feet and volunteers to speak with her. As she proceeds upstairs, I envy her freedom to do so. She closes Rosalie's door, and I tune them out, having no desire to overhear their conversation.

If she wishes to confide in me, she will do so when ready.

"Do you have a preference?" the doctor asks me wearily. "In regards to our next destination?"

I look away with a shake of my head, nearly overwhelmed by the urge to crush him for hurting her.

"Very well. I shall discuss it with Esme and inform you both once we decide."

He leaves me alone in the living room, his attention divided between Rosalie's pain and a thick, open text on his desk. As he approaches the staircase, he focuses on the latter image, seeking solutions for a difficult pediatric case.

"Wait."

The doctor pauses mid-step, unsure he heard correctly. _'Are you talking to me, son?'_

I ignore the endearment and focus on the question. "Yes. I need to speak with you."

His face is composed when he re-enters the living room though his mind has gone blank with shock. This is the first time I have initiated conversation since my return, and he is floored by the occurrence.

He resumes his former position, sitting upright in the chair to mask his nerves. "What can I do for you?"

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. "It's about Rosalie."

**Hmmm… what do you think Edward wants to speak to Carlisle about? And how do you think things are progressing between Edward and his nonsister Rose? Let me know! xoxo**


	17. Chapter 17: Enough

**Disclaimer: SM owns everything in the Twiverse but please don't steal my plot **

**A/N: I am beyond sorry this has taken so long. RL has been a bear lately, but things are getting better each day! **

**To make up for my absence, I have an extra-long chappie for you. **

**But first, the last third of Ch16 to ****jog your memory. Thanks for sticking with me! **

* * *

_From Chapter 16..._

The doctor sits across from me in the living room, his thoughts guarded as Rosalie enters from the salon. Her face reveals none of her amusement regarding her conversation with Mrs. Cullen.

_'Your perch atop the pedestal is safe,'_ she tells me. _'Although appalled at your "unseemly conduct," Esme assures me you are the best of men and worth getting to know better. I am beginning to believe she desires you herself.'_

I gasp aloud at the notion, earning me a curious look from my master. "Is something wrong?"

"No." I ignore the laughter in Rosalie's mind. "Just lost in my thoughts."

Rosalie winks as she passes behind the doctor, and my eyes say what I cannot. _'You will pay for that._'

She understands my glare, and her tongue darts out in reply. _'Do your worst. I'm not afraid of you.'_

Her insolence delights me, and I paste a scowl on my face as she sits across from me, folding her hands neatly in her lap. _'You may openly despise me now.'_

I snort aloud, earning a disapproving glance from Mrs. Cullen as her husband calls us to order.

"Thank you both for coming," he says. "I realize you have other things to do."

"We have a decision to make," his wife interjects, "and I thought it best made together."

Rosalie says nothing, and I roll my eyes. "Well?"

"We have been in Rochester for seven years," Dr. Cullen begins, "much longer than we usually stay in one place. But circumstances prevented us from leaving sooner, and…"

"Your point?" I ask before he can mention my four-year absence. Rosalie should hear about that from me…

"It is time to leave."

"Leave?" Rosalie echoes. "As in leave Rochester?"

"I'm afraid we must," Esme says softly. "Our agelessness is impossible to hide anymore."

My nonsister nods, but her thoughts are in frantic disagreement. "Of course."

"And this is why we wanted to speak with both of you," Dr. Cullen continues. "We would like your opinion on where we go next."

"You steal my humanity, but you can't pick a new city?"

Esme gasps at the outburst though her husband appears unsurprised. "Rosalie, I am sor…"

"Do not placate me with belated apologies, Father Cullen." She sneers the moniker, her eyes like red flint. "You made your choice."

The pain in her voice makes my chest ache, and I grip the sides of my chair to keep from crossing the room to hold her. "What are our options?" I ask instead.

He glances at Rosalie before addressing me. "We haven't been to Europe as a fam- er, as a group, so England is an option. So are a few cities in Germany and Russia. And there's always…"

"I am not leaving this country," Rosalie says in a low, taut voice. "I am already condemned to the underworld. I will not surrender my citizenship as well. Beyond that, I don't give a damn what you do."

She rises from her chair and quits the room, and my eyes cannot help but follow. Dejection mars the elegant line of her shoulders, kindling my anger toward the doctor. This is his fault entirely, and Rosalie is correct not to let him forget it.

Esme comes to her feet and volunteers to speak with her. As she proceeds upstairs, I envy her freedom to do so. She closes Rosalie's door, and I tune them out, having no desire to overhear their conversation.

If she wishes to confide in me, she will do so when ready.

"Do you have a preference?" the doctor asks me wearily. "In regards to our next destination?"

I look away with a shake of my head, nearly overwhelmed by the urge to crush him for hurting her.

"Very well. I shall discuss it with Esme and inform you both once we decide."

He leaves me alone in the living room, his attention divided between Rosalie's pain and a thick, open text on his desk. As he approaches the staircase, he focuses on the latter image, seeking solutions for a difficult pediatric case.

"Wait."

The doctor pauses mid-step, unsure he heard correctly. _'Are you talking to me, son?'_

I ignore the endearment and focus on the question. "Yes. I need to speak with you."

His face is composed when he re-enters the living room though his mind has gone blank with shock. This is the first time I have initiated conversation since my return, and he is floored by the occurrence.

He resumes his former position, sitting upright in the chair to mask his nerves. "What can I do for you?"

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. "It's about Rosalie."

* * *

**Chapter 17: Enough**

**Edward's POV**

Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

The fourth city of my immortal life.

It is no more or less remarkable than the others with one notable exception.

I have a live-in diversion.

The doctor settles us in another remote area, this one hidden high in the mountains framing the tiny town. The stone ranch is large enough to spread out in, and Rosalie and I claim the west wing for ourselves.

After a heated debate, of course.

Upon entering the house, I seek the space furthest from my so-called parents, craving privacy and refusing to infringe upon theirs.

'_Let us have a bit of sport,' _ Rosalie thinks as she stalks past me. _'Set the tone for our new abode.'_

"Natural light!" She enters the largest of the four rooms first. "The perfect sitting room."

"Excuse me." I turn stiffly toward her. "The choice is mine."

She arches an eyebrow as the doctor and his wife appear in the archway. "Have you never heard of 'ladies first'?"

"Why would such a thing apply here?"

A low hiss escapes her, and Dr. Cullen steps forward. "I am sure there's a way to work this out."

"There is nothing to work out." I clasp my hands behind my back as I tour the space. "I was a member of this family first…"

Rosalie snorts. "So we're a family now?"

"…therefore I have first choice. The acoustics in Rochester were a disgrace. My piano belongs here, and I with it."

"The piano will reside in your bedroom?" Mrs. Cullen asks. "What if Rosalie wishes to play?"

"She shall knock on my door and ask permission."

My nonsister folds her arms. "And what if you are not at home?"

"Then you shall wait until I return."

She turns to Dr. Cullen. "I want my own piano."

"That could be arranged," he says.

"And have two pianos dueling in the house?" Mrs. Cullen tsks. "That will not do."

"What do you suggest?" her husband asks.

"That they share the piano and this end of the house."

Rosalie gasps, and I shake my head once. "Out of the question. I need silence and isolation to play properly."

"An entire wing for one instrument?" Rosalie cries. "Could you be more pretentious?"

"Rosalie…" Dr. Cullen sighs.

"What?" She points to the airy space adjacent to my music room. "A view of the lake and the lone shower. I want those two rooms as well, and he shall not have them."

"I care nothing about them. I need this room for my piano and see no reason why you cannot sit in the larger room with the superior lakeside view on the other side of the house."

"I shan't justify my reasons to you."

"You could share this area," Esme says again.

"No!" we exclaim. "The house is large enough to preclude such inconvenience," I add.

"Now I'm an inconvenience?"

I clench my fists, biting my lip to quarantine my retort. "I do not mean to suggest you are an inconvenience," I grind out. "I mean only that sharing space is unnecessary in a house this size."

She is greatly amused by my forced harshness, but she huffs aloud. "I appreciate the clarification, but we remain at an impasse."

The doctor and his wife stare at me, their eyes matching their pleading thoughts, and I release a harsh breath. "Would you like this end of the house, Rosalie?"

She falters at the use of her name, her voice softening. "I would."

Our eyes meet—sienna on gold—and I am momentarily lost. "Then take it."

"Do you mean it?"

Our feelings ignite, diluting the subterfuge, and I clear my throat to recover it. "I would not wish to suspend any pleasure of yours."

She blinks at my answer, recalling the quote, and thanks me in her mind. "I suppose I should return the favor," she says aloud. "I need only so much space, after all."

"Which means what?"

She tosses back her hair, refusing to look at me. "You may store your piano here if you wish."

I feign surprise. "Are you certain?"

"Did I stutter?" she snaps, then forces a smile. "Yes, I am certain. The room beside it is also vacant, should you decide to store yourself there."

"That room is also beside yours."

She raises sarcastic eyes to mine. "I am sure you can tell the difference."

I hold her gaze, shrugging despite the fluttering in my heart. "Very well."

"Then it's settled!" Mrs. Cullen claps. "I am so glad it worked out."

Dr. Cullen beams at me, and I am shocked to feel gratified. "Nightfall approaches, and Esme and I must meet our furniture at the train," he says. "Are you coming with us?"

"I have no interest in this town," Rosalie scoffs. "It is not home and never will be." She quits the room without a mental word, and I know her feelings are genuine.

_You should stay here tonight,_ the doctor thinks at me. _This transition will be difficult for her, and she will need you._

I roll my eyes and angle my head toward the back door, indicating my need to speak with him.

"I'll be along shortly," he says to his wife. "Wait for me at the second landing on the east side of the mountain."

"Of course." She kisses his cheek, and I do not scowl for once. Mrs. Cullen notices, poorly disguising her shock. "Thank you, Edward." _For being so kind to Rose._

Her gratitude is superfluous, but I acknowledge it with a nod.

She needs not know serving Rosalie is my greatest pleasure.

'_Yes, thank you, Edward,'_ Rosalie thinks as she unpacks her travel bag. _'Your generosity warrants reward. Think long on what you wish, and I shall make it worth your while.'_

She then assaults me with a vision of her perfect hands cupping my face, her rosy eyes dropping to my mouth. I can taste her breath as she leans in, the exotic florals unique to her, and my mouth waters with anticipation.

"Edward?" The doctor passes me, his voice ruining the mirage. "Shall we go?"

'_Fear not,'_ my nonsister smiles as I flee the house. _'There is more where that came from.'_

I nearly run into a tree at her final thought, barely recovering before Dr. Cullen can notice.

Damnable creature.

—B—I—

I stop running when we are beyond earshot of the house. "It has been three weeks since our discussion, and you have not answered me."

He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "I am aware of that."

"Do we have an agreement?"

Concern sullies the normal brightness of his eyes. "I'm afraid I have no answer."

"Is there some issue on your end?"

"It is not a matter of logistics."

An angry hand flies through my hair before I can stop it. "Then what is the problem?"

He blocks his thoughts with a German recitation of the Psalms. "I wonder if this is the best course of action."

"For her?"

"For both of you."

"I didn't ask for your approval."

"No." He folds his arms. "But assistance implies acceptance, and that I am loath to provide."

My voice drops to a growl. "Give me one reason why not."

"Rosalie values her privacy, and I do not think she will appreciate your violation of it."

"You don't know her."

"And you do?" He waits for an answer I do not give. "Think about this, Edward, about the decision you are making."

_I can think of little else._

He advances in the silence, his golden brows knit. "Could you not speak to her first?"

"And risk her disappointment if I fail? Absolutely not."

"This is a delicate mission, son. And though I believe your heart is rightly motivated, I must protect her from…"

"I am trying to protect her!"

The doctor comes to a halt. "I see."

His crumbling mental block reveals his curiosity about my motives, and I force myself into indifference. Rosalie wants our entanglement to remain secret, and I must respect that wish above all others.

"My apologies," I say. "But your vacillating wishes confuse me."

"I'm sorry?"

"You say you want us to get along, for me to befriend Rosalie. This is my attempt to do that, and your refusal to help is rather…"

"I have not refused."

"So we are in agreement?" I take a step toward him. "You will do this for me?"

He searches my eyes for ulterior motives, though I already know the last two words have broken him. "Upon your word of being in earnest, I will do this."

A smile nearly splits my face, and I reach for his hand to shake it. He hesitates but a moment then covers our joined hands with his free one, holding on as if for life.

I remove my hand as politely as I can, fighting the urge to wipe my hand on my trousers. "See that no one finds out."

He bows and prepares to speak again, and I fly down the other side of the mountain. Though I shall not share my plan, Rosalie will soon know what I have done, and the doctor will confirm his complicity, adding his belief that I acted in her best interest.

I hope it is enough.

—B—I—

The following night, I return from a solo hunt to find the house dark. Though she relishes human convention, Rosalie revels in her ability to see as clearly with light as without it.

'_There is something naughty about consorting in the dark, is there not?'_ she whispers when we're alone at night.

Alone.

At night.

A delicious tremor shimmies across my belly, warning me of the folly ahead. I should take a wide arc from the house and join the Cullens in town on their exploratory excursion.

But Rosalie's earlier words spring to mind, and I walk faster.

A fountain pen scratching against paper greets my ears as I near the house, and I remember to announce myself. When lost in her private thoughts, Rosalie's peripheral awareness diminishes and she scares easily. After one such incident in Rochester where she shrieked and pinned me to the floor in fright, I have learned to be more declarative in my movements.

And to deny the enjoyment I derived from our prone position.

I kick a stone against the side of the house upon arrival, and she hides her journal in her bureau, closing the top drawer without a sound. Clearing her throat, she invites me into her mind.

'_Are you ready to play?' _

"Depends on the enterprise."

'_Does it matter, as long as you win?'_

I place a foot on the bottom step. "And how do you know I will win?"

'_Oh, my boy. If you play nicely, we both shall win.' _ The use of her preferred pet name affects me as she knew it would, and I stop where I stand. _'Now back up and start counting.' _

Knowing her game, I retreat into the trees, dutifully reciting my numbers up to one million. From this distance, I can see, hear, and smell nothing, and the loss of her presence makes my fingers itch.

I miss her already.

Reaching my numerical goal, I sprint toward the front of the house, stomping on the bottom step with a shout. But she is good and makes not a sound.

I close the door and once in the entryway, I close my eyes. Though I navigate easily without sight or smell, the deprivation of those senses alarms me, and I must pause to gather my wits.

There are nocturnal creatures outside the house, an errant insect or two within. The steady hum of electricity and the gurgle of water in the pipes.

Otherwise, the house is completely silent.

Hide and seek was a favorite pastime of the boy I used to be, but its vampiric counterpart is far more exciting. Seeking without the benefit of sight engages the body and mind in myriad ways, to say nothing of the object of the game herself.

And the sweet reward she gives upon her discovery.

It would be foolish to pretend I do not crave her kisses, a boldface lie to deny my desire for more. Each time we play, our bodies betray us, inching us toward a precipice we claim intention to avoid. Were we wiser, we would desist in our teasing and revert to chastity, contenting ourselves with safer pursuits.

But where is the fun in that?

Aware of my surroundings, I clear my mind and inhale slowly through my nose. A sift through the scents is hardly necessary to distinguish the one I seek, but I complete the circuit just the same. At the first whiff of jasmine and amber, my heart soars with recognition. But as I weigh its potency, I realize minutes have passed since she last graced this space.

I venture further.

I check the parlor, the doctor's office, and the kitchen with only my nose to guide me. I stand at the top of the stairway leading to the basement, wondering if she has explored the bottom floor without me. Though her scent is faint in each place, the outcome is the same.

No Rosalie.

I stand outside the Cullen's bedroom and hesitate. Rosalie hid beside Esme's chifforobe when last we played and later giggled through my invented excuse for invading their room. But I was recompensed with a double portion of kisses, so I begin to hope she is within.

But my senses reveal otherwise, and I huff my disappointment.

With all rooms in this wing accounted for, I proceed toward our end of the house. As her scent grows stronger with each step, I marvel at the blankness of her mind: not a whisper or image to be found. I know not how she does it, and she revels in her secrecy.

Minx.

As I come upon her suite, I smile, knowing victory is at hand. But the familiar decrease in potency confuses me, and I conclude she is not in her bathroom. Another three steps plant me in front of her boudoir, and though her scent is stronger, it is not strong enough.

Which means but one thing.

She is in one of my rooms.

My suddenly dry mouth goes slack, and I drag a palm down my face as possibilities assault me:

Rosalie reclining on my leather sofa, arms and legs open in invitation.

Rosalie spread out across the closed top of my piano, lusty eyes beckoning me forward.

A harsh oath slips past my lips, and as my loins tighten in response, I come to a sure conclusion.

She is trying to kill me.

Recalling the migratory patterns of every bird in New England, my body relaxes enough to move me toward my bedroom door.

I no longer care about winning. I just need to touch her.

Without bothering to inhale, I open the door and am rewarded with a soft cry of surprise. "You found me."

I walk toward my sofa where she lies against its higher arm. "So I did."

Her eyes hold mine, a challenge in their depths. "But your eyes are open."

"So they are."

"So you lose."

I reach the end of the chair where her legs are crossed at the ankle. "That is debatable."

"Is it?"

I lift her feet and set them on my lap as I sit. "You said I'd win either way."

"If you played nicely." Her breath catches as I remove her right shoe. "You are cheating."

"Am I?"

I cradle her stockinged foot, squeezing gently. Her head rolls back against the cushion with a breathy sigh. I continue my attention to her heel and arch, and she moans as the pad of my thumb presses against her instep. "Stop."

I obey but do not release her foot. "Does this not please you?"

She raises her head, leveling me with her eyes. "Quite the opposite."

On instinct, I turn toward her, inadvertently settling between her legs. She notes my position with wide eyes, and we stare at each other, our thoughts identical.

We face the abyss once more, the expanse of her body the only barrier between what is and what could be, both aching and afraid to move.

The moment stretches beyond what is tolerable, and I bite my lip for want of contact. Her eyes follow the movement, and I shut my eyes. "Rosalie, tell me what to do."

"Edward…" Her breath is shaky, its fragrance deepened by her arousal. "Please…"

I lean forward, feeling her hands slide over my wrists. "Yes?"

She clutches my arms. "Please… let me."

The gentle command belies the strength of her grip, but as her thoughts are blocked, I cannot decipher the reason for the difference. But as her hands slide up to my shoulders, I forget to care.

I open my eyes to find Rosalie shifting to a sitting position, her covered legs on either side of me. She traces the line of my jaw with a finger, trailing it lightly over my bottom lip. I shudder as she cups my face, my eyes fluttering shut as our lips meet.

My body tenses upon contact, every pore and dead nerve awakened once more. There is nothing beyond her mouth against mine, no consequence to fear or life to be had. Each press of her lips is a prayer answered, and I lay myself on the altar of her whims.

She shifts, rising above me, and from our new angle, I realize she is on her knees. Her lips part, searing me with sensual flavor. I burn to hold her but do not move my hands. She needs my submission, to know she is in control, and I yield to her in this as in all things.

Rosalie suddenly relaxes her grip on my hands and licks my bottom lip. She traces it lightly before sucking it into her mouth. The desire to taste overrides the need to touch, and I capture her lips, groaning as our tongues meet for the first time. She is a silken, consuming fire, setting my soul ablaze.

She inches closer, the rubbing of her knees against leather audible in the silence. The sound echoes within me, and I remember we are on my sofa, a place where I have imagined this scenario more times than I'd ever admit. Fantasy colors my reality, and I deepen our kiss, running my tongue along her teeth. She sighs my name, and I am lost.

My freed hands slide into her hair as I leave her lips, teasing the line of her jaw. I dip to her neck, nipping and kissing the spot where her pulse is silent. As I gently suckle the fragrant skin, she holds my head in place, urging me on with her moans. Her scent unravels in heady layers as I taste her, and I fear I shall never have enough.

When the urge to bite nearly overwhelms me, I force myself away from her throat. Seizing the moment, she presses her physical advantage and pushes me onto my back. Our throbbing bodies perfectly align, and as she adjusts, her arousal rubs against mine.

Our eyes open, and we stare at each other, adrift in uncharted waters. This is the push and pull of us, and I brace myself for her retreat, an apology on my lips.

But Rosalie does not move.

She steadies herself on top of me, studying my eyes as her sacred center presses against me. We moan together, and I force my attention away from the sensation as she prepares to speak.

"Is this…" She gasps for breath she doesn't need. "Do you want me to move?"

Several replies flood my mind, and she blushes at my indecision. "That is," she clarifies, "would you like me to remove myself from your person?"

I drink in her hooded eyes, parted lips, and heaving chest. "A question impossible to answer."

She laughs but the humor is short-lived. "I want to stay… like this…." Her bottom lip trembles with her pause. "But I'm not ready to…"

"I know."

She shakes her head, her eyes glazed as if to cry. "Is it enough?"

Her uncertainty pierces my heart, and my anger rekindles toward the King and his men. She misreads my emotional shift and turns away, shame coloring her thoughts.

My rage instantly cools, and I rest my hands against her hips, willing her to look at me. "I am not angry with you, love. Nor could I ever be."

"But you are angry."

I want to deny it, but she knows me too well. "I am angry at your pain, at those who caused it."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." I take her hands in mine, squeezing gently. "Don't ever be sorry for how you feel."

"But…." Her brows furrow in frustration. "I don't want to disappoint…"

I lay a finger against her mouth, forcing her eyes to mine. "You are what I want. You are all I want, and you could never disappoint me."

My eyes burn with the intensity of her stare, but I do not look away. At length, she kisses my finger. "So… this is enough?"

I sit up to meet her, laying my palm against her cheek. "You are enough."

She finally smiles, bringing her lips to mine once more. My hand winds around her neck to rest upon her lower back as she falls forward. And as we kiss away our first private night in Tennessee, I pray to someday be enough for her.

**What do we think of Roseward's version of Hide & Seek? And what in the world is Edward doing with Carlisle? Stay tuned, friends... things are about to get interesting **

**xoxo ladylibre **


	18. Chapter 18: As a Vampire Thinketh

**Disclaimer: SM owns everything in the Twiverse but please don't steal my plot **

**Chapter 18: As a Vampire Thinketh**

**Rosalie's POV**

Vampires, by default, have a different concept of time. They assign its meaning by years not days, months not minutes.

There are a few known exceptions to this practice:

Esme's marking of her time with Carlisle for one.

Mine of my liaison with Edward.

But though my skin is hard and my heart forever silent, this date will be significant no matter how many times I see it.

For today is Liam's birthday.

I do not think about him while Edward is around, filling my mind when tempted with assorted trifles to secure his disinterest. When that fails, I resort to more carnal considerations, making him blush and stutter as he finds sudden occupation out of doors.

I am endlessly fascinated by his reactions to my sensuality.

Equally fascinating is my recent shamelessness in that department.

But now that he has taken off for parts unknown, my thoughts are safe. And I close my eyes and indulge on my favorite fantasy.

Behind my lids, I tiptoe into Liam's room just after sunrise, avoiding the toy cars that spilled onto the floor during his wild slumber. I kneel beside him, watching the morning light caress his chubby face. He has many perfections—his inquisitive eyes and infectious laugh among them—but his cheeks are my absolute favorites. Round, ruddy, and soft, they are pillows of joy begging to be kissed or pinched. And though he hates such attention, I remain the only one he allows the privilege.

He rolls over, nearly smacking me in the face, and my hand flies to my mouth to keep from laughing. Liam's heart would break if he learned of his near-miss, his bottom lip quivering in apology. "I so saw-wee, Wozee."

It would almost be worth waking him early just for the missing r's in his version of my name.

Definitely the sweetest sounds on earth.

Father will want to be the first to give birthday greetings, so I must hurry before I am caught. I bend to his face, inhaling his precious scent, and kiss him gently. He stirs a little, wrinkling his nose with a sigh, but does not awaken. Placing my mouth to his ear, I recite the words I penned upon his birth:

_Lovely one from heaven, so fair_

_With azure eyes and golden hair_

_On angel's wings, you flew so far_

_To take your place and claim my heart_

_Liam, my love, so perfect and sweet_

_You made me whole, my life complete_

With a final kiss to his forehead, I slip out of the room and back to mine mere seconds before Father's door opens. His heavy footfalls precede three soft raps on Liam's door, and shortly thereafter will be the high-pitched squeal unique to little boys on their birthdays.

I blink my eyes from my perch in the window seat in our sitting-slash-piano room, vainly attempting to ward off the heart wrenching sting these thoughts inspire.

I wonder how they will mark the day. Will Father take Liam to the park to fly his favorite kite? Will Mother make her decadent chocolate pudding and let him lick the spoon? Or will they plan a treasure hunt for his gift, leaving a trail of trinkets throughout the house and garden?

And what will be his gift? It has been twelve weeks since I saw him, but I forget so much. Is it a new pouch for his marbles or a model plane for which he pines? Has Father purchased his gift and hidden it in plain sight as he is wont to do? Will his day be joyful without me?

I wince against the question, expecting the ache in my chest. I want Liam to be happy, to never know lack or melancholy.

But a larger part of me, the part longing to see his smile in the flesh, cannot help but wish for a touch of sadness in the midst of his revelry for the sister he has forever lost.

Who knew I could be so selfish?

I shake off the thoughts, refusing to ruin the exercise. Esme said we must remember with passion if we are to retain our human memories, and I refuse to forget my angel. I swallow past the lump in my throat, closing my eyes to concentrate.

_Happy birthday, my sweet Liam. May you somehow feel my love today._

—B—I—

It is a cool, crisp autumn morning, and I am taking my walk in the woods earlier than usual. I am having trouble relaxing of late, my only respite among the wilds around our home.

Home. I am adjusting to the word.

I cannot recall having a favorite season as a human, but in my immortality, I have discovered a level of beauty unknown in my former life. The heat of summer, for instance, is more than notches on a thermometer. It is a shift in the air, an audacious coiling in the loins that does not relent until the first fall frost.

And though the colors of autumn were always splendid, I now see nuances I never knew existed. The browns are beautiful, the violets vivacious, but my eye ever returns to the auburns and golds. Their riotous tones speak of evolution and fire, of a passion so intense, it consumes itself.

Or perhaps I am confusing the leaves with something else.

Some_one_ else, to put a proper point on it.

It has been six months since our move to Tennessee, and though I have no use for this place, I can no longer feign indifference to the state in which I find myself.

I try not to think of Edward even when alone, believing I can quarantine this madness by the flip of a mental switch. But when nature itself seems to echo his brilliance, who am I to resist?

Perhaps I shall expel my confusion at the piano after the Cullens leave for work. Though the national economy suffers, they have found fulfillment in assisting those in need however they can. Dr. Cullen toils at a free clinic in town while his bride lends a hand at the nearby soup kitchen. She has become even dearer since our relocation, but I am not ready to confide in her about Edward.

Especially as I have no idea what we are about.

Yet I see Esme's looks when she thinks I do not, the way her eyes dance when he and I are together. I know her hopes, feel them pressing upon me, and when honest I admit they are not entirely unwelcome.

But what does that mean?

Coming within earshot of the house, an unexpected sound reaches my ears.

Esme.

She is in trouble, acutely so.

Her rapid, shallow breaths send frightening shivers down my spine, and I am instantly alarmed.

Lifting my skirts in preparation to run toward the house, I freeze in place when another sound follows the first.

Carlisle.

He is with her, his voice sighing her name like a prayer.

I cover my gaping mouth as my eyes widen, embarrassment washing through me like an uncomfortable flood. I know they engage in such activities—their winks and smiles are telling enough—but in seven months in their company, I have never heard anything beyond a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Until now.

Stumbling backwards, I sit on the nearest boulder and try to calm down. They seem unaware I can hear them, and given the deliberation with which they tease and undress, I do not think they would care.

Either way, there is nothing stopping me from fleeing to town, the north, or any location beyond earshot.

Yet I do not move.

As Edward is pursuing panthers on the other side of the mountain and there are no humans within two miles of this spot, it is safe to acknowledge a secret truth.

I want to hear them.

Need to hear them.

Lest my curiosity seem inappropriate, it is not for the sake of any misdirected attraction. I dread the matching images my mind will soon supply, and I can only hope my naivete will save my sanity.

No, my need to observe is of a clinical nature.

I need to understand how they do it.

Esme in particular.

I know her history, a tragedy surpassing my own as a young, precious life was also lost. And I know Dr. Cullen is nothing like that odious man to whom she was wed.

But I do not know… and cannot fathom… how she does _this._ How she allows herself to be so vulnerable, so naked before him. How she relinquishes control to something, to someone stronger than herself, trusting his motives and movements to cause pleasure not pain.

It is this I must understand before giving myself to Edward.

Seven months is a long time to flirt with fulfillment, an eternity by vampiric standards. Though he has never implied impatience nor given me reason to feel rushed, I know the clock ticks toward our eventual endgame. I feel the tension in his touch, notice the restraint he employs while kissing me.

Our naughty games are now fraught with frustration, resulting in more rules and fewer laughs. Hide and seek is an impossibility. The last time we attempted the piano together was an unmitigated failure. And he insists I tether myself to the Cullens whenever he hunts within thirty miles of the house, a restriction I do not understand.

Though some elusive instinct warns me not to mention it to Esme.

There is so much unsaid between us, so many questions to be asked and answered. Yet I cannot bring myself to speak them. And though my prickly nature wants to assign blame, Edward does not deserve it. He graciously handed me the reins in Rochester, and I now understand the depth of that vow. This reticence is his gift to me, the hallmark of his adoration.

He yearns, yet he waits.

And in so doing becomes more intoxicating.

I cannot feign ignorance of my feelings, jumbled though they may be. I know what I want, what we both want, even as much of it remains undefined.

But for all my desire and dreams, I cannot yield. Even to that beautiful boy who seeks to be mine, I am not ready to surrender.

And as Esme's cry of freedom swells around me, I wonder if I ever will.

—B—I—

It is late when I return to the house. Dr. Cullen and his bride are within, enveloped in benign conversation. Edward is not here, and I stifle sadness at the realization. I can only hope those stupid big cats will stop eluding him and release him to my care.

The waiting is terrible.

I pass the living room where the Cullens are seated, and Esme looks up. "How was your walk, dear?"

"Quite relaxing, thank you." I betray nothing of my earlier eavesdropping. "I am ever amazed at the fall foliage."

"It is spectacular, isn't it?" she beams, turning to her husband. "Perhaps we should take a midnight stroll."

Dr. Cullen glances at the window. "The moon seems to approve. It is high and full and begging us to indulge in its light."

"Did you see Edward in your travels?" Esme asks with that look in her eye. "I thought you would return together."

"No." My reply deflates her, and I stifle the guilt. "I have not seen him."

Her husband strokes her arm. "I am sure he will return soon."

"And I am sure you are right," she replies, her good humor restored.

With the sounds of their love fresh in my mind, I cannot endure their smiles, no matter how kind. "May I go now?"

"Please do," the doctor says. "We would not dream of delaying you."

Their sudden glee puzzles me, but I am in no humor to question it. With Edward out of doors and nothing else to amuse me, I want nothing more than to drown in the solace of my room.

I cross the threshold of my sacred space, turn on the lamp out of human habit, and am stunned by what I find lying upon my bed.

**Oooooh, what could this be? Find out next time, dear readers! xoxo**


	19. Chapter 19: Contact

**Disclaimer: SM owns everything in the Twiverse but please don't steal my plot **

**A/N: I know I just posted Ch18 the other day, but Rosalie's curiosity would not relent. So here I am with Ch19 hot off the presses! **

**And on that note, I've had recent problems receiving Story Alerts for my favorites, and I wonder if other readers are so afflicted. So if you're reading this chapter, could you drop me a line to let me know? Thanks!  
**

**Now let's find out what's on Rosalie's bed...**

**Chapter 19: Contact**

**Rosalie's POV**

I have perfect eyesight.

Perfect, otherworldly eyesight even in the dark.

So I know it is impossible to be "seeing things" as the expression goes. If I think I see something in front of me, it must be there.

But as I near the bed and sit down upon it, I am struck by the thought that what I see here cannot be real.

I lean closer, reaching out to poke the object. Surely if it is a mirage, my finger will pass through it to the downy covering on my bed.

Logic aside, this is what I expect.

But my finger does not pass through.

Instead it makes contact with something I now know to be real.

An envelope.

A heavily stamped envelope bearing my father's handwriting.

I slip a hand beneath it, cradling it as if fearing disintegration. Though I could read the words from across the room, I want them as close to my eyes as inhumanly possible. I want to drink in the firm, straight lines of my father's penmanship.

A sight I never thought I'd see again.

After reading my name, I turn the envelope over, carefully breaking the seal. I fish out the letter, my slack mouth going dry at the sight of the ivory parchment. His best stationery, used only for his most significant notes.

In a hope chest beneath my bed in Rochester, I have several.

I clamp my lips shut, willing my trembling fingers to cooperate, and gingerly unfold the ivory parchment, steeling myself for his opening words.

"_My precious Rosie…"_

I clutch the paper to my breast as dry sobs rack my body. I can almost hear his voice, see the smile beneath his mustache as he speaks, and I am overcome with raucous joy.

A few minutes pass before I am able to read on, and I try to do so silently.

_Words cannot express our relief at being able to speak to you at last. You cannot imagine how we have despaired these past months, pleading nightly for your safety. Praise be to God for answering our prayers and in such decided fashion!_

I lay the letter face-down on the bed and clench my hands, struggling for control. There are another half-dozen lines, and if I am to read them without tearing the page, I must calm myself.

_There is much to say, but in the interest of expedience, I shall be brief, telling you what is utmost in all our hearts to hopefully bring much-needed comfort to yours._

_We love you, Rosie. Dearly and eternally. And nothing—not distance, absence, or circumstance—could ever change that. So do what you must and live as you will. You are forever our golden treasure and we hold you in our hearts today as securely as we ever did before._

_All our love,_

_Father, Mother, Robert, and Liam._

I lay the sacred scroll aside as my heart shatters in my chest. Were I able to cry, I would be a heaving, weepy mess and not care in the least. I repeat the words in my head several dozen times, my soul ablaze with joy.

My family loves me!

I bow my head and thank the Father, Son, and Spirit for blessing me thus, unable to believe my great fortune.

My family—my father, my Liam!—they still love me!

They still love me and wish to comfort my heart!

To comfort my heart…

What could they know of my heart?

I suppose it would be safe to assume my sadness at our separation, but Father's words seem more pointed than that. As if he knows something for certain.

He would not have heard from Royce or his associates prior to their demise. And any report rendered would have been unfavorable to say the least. Certainly nothing to inspire compassion. I avoided other humans since my change, and my journal is locked in the drawer to my right. But Father definitely knows something.

Which means something is amiss.

Though my recall lacks nothing, I read the page again, pouring over each word. But for the first time, I notice what lies beneath the final paragraph and before the benediction, words I must have missed in my initial excited haste.

_Thank you for writing, dear Rosie. We await your next letter with bated breath. _

_Thank you for writing... We await your next letter…_

When did I write?

What did I write?

Did I write? Could I have done so in a mindless moment and forgotten? Could the emotional stakes of an attempt to connect with my fractured past have resulted in situational amnesia?

I know the answer without having to think about it.

I have not written my family, have not once considered the possibility.

Yet…

_Thank you for writing… We await your next letter…_

Folding the letter in delicate fourths, I tuck it away and find myself in front of the Cullens before my mind registers the intent to see them. "What do you know?"

Esme regards me with mild interest. "About what, dear?"

"Do not trifle with me." My voice shakes in spite of me. "You must have delivered it to my room, so you well know to what I refer."

"I have given you nothing in three days." Her face falls. "An oversight I must soon correct. And Carlisle would not enter your room without permission, no matter the reason."

I demure, scanning her eyes for lies. "You didn't do this?"

"We did not."

Her pronoun use does not escape me, and I turn to her husband. "Tell me."

"It is not my place."

Though his words displease me, they are not unkind.

"Please, Carlisle." He starts at this inaugural use of his name. "This is important."

"I agree."

My mouth pulls into a tight line. "Then why are you being deliberately obtuse?"

"Obtuse?" He shakes his head. "Hardly. I am trying to be respectful."

"Respectful?" I shut my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. "This is not to be borne! You know what I'm asking, and I want answers. Now!"

"And you shall have them."

I do not open my eyes right away, needing a moment to collect myself at the sound of his voice. Its melody is like honey in perfect cup of tea, soothing me from the inside out.

I feel his stare though the veil of my lids, its intensity pressing against my resistance, and I brace myself for the sight of him as I open my eyes.

He is perfect as always, his riotous hair an apt counterpart to the frenzy in my heart. But for all of his beauty, I detect a flaw, an errant brushstroke on the masterpiece, and I am startled when I catch its cause.

He is afraid.

Of me.

"If you will excuse us." Carlisle pulls Esme to her feet. "We wish to enjoy the night."

Neither of his so-called children replies as he takes eager leave with his wife, but I do not miss the glance he spares his eldest son as he passes him in the foyer.

I glare at the doctor until he shuts the door behind them, fixing my eyes on the far window to avoid Edward's gaze.

One look would shatter me for sure.

So we stand without speaking, the perplexing boy and I, each waiting for the other to jump into the fracas. The furnishings and comfort around us fade into nothing, and only he and I remain.

My mind is intentionally blank, and from the furrow of his brow, I know the deprivation is more than he can bear. And despite my considerable agitation, I cannot bear the sight of his pain.

"You have been gone a long time," I say.

"Yes." He cannot hide his relief at my benign beginning. "The day's activities were more extensive than expected."

"Did you find your cougar?"

"I did, thank you." His eyes drop to my clenched hands. "How was your afternoon?"

I do not reply, choosing instead to unfold my hands. He watches as I lift them to the collar of my blouse, his eyes widening as I reach inside to retrieve the folded note.

To his credit, he lingers on my bosom only as long as the letter does, following its path from one hand to the other.

"I have a question." I step toward him, noting his flinch. "And I expect the truth."

"I never give you any less."

The words are laced with velvet, and I shudder against them. "What did you do?"

Confusion mars his face. "I do not know how to answer that."

My eyes flash, and he holds up his hands to pause my responding rant. "Your query is vague enough to produce several honest responses," he explains. "I only wish to satisfy you, to give you what you want."

That familiar tingle snakes up my spine, and I reply without thinking. "You know what I want."

"Do I?" Gold warms to amber in his eyes. "You have not yet said."

"But you occupy my mind," I say softly. "All the time."

He reaches for my empty hand, lacing our fingers together. "As you occupy mine."

I swallow hard, fighting the need to lick my lips. "I do not have your gift."

There is a sigh of heat and longing as his knuckles brush my cheek. "I am not speaking of telepathy."

"Did you write my father?"

The words flee my lips before I realize they are gone, and he withdraws his hand, stricken.

"Edward, I'm sorry. I did not mean..."

"You have nothing for which to apologize," he murmurs. "It is I who has taken liberties with your life."

The dull cavern where my heart once lived begins to throb. "So you admit it then?"

"Yes."

"You wrote my father?"

"I did."

I turn away, a flurry of emotions causing my chest to heave. I press my palm against my breast, willing myself to relax. There are so many questions I can hardly catch my needless breath. But only one escapes me, the only one that matters. "Why?"

"I told you. I want to satisfy you."

The words take on a different meaning in my heightened confusion, and I whirl around to face him. "So this is your plan? To secure my physical acquiescence by writing my father?"

Pain twists his face into an abnormal grimace, and I cover my accursed mouth with my hands. "Forgive me."

Though my words are muffled, I know he hears them. But that does not stop him from turning toward the front door. "Edward, please. I…"

"I cannot believe you think me so vile." His anguished whisper slices me afresh. "That after all we have shared, I could use…"

"No." I fly to the space between his body and the door, laying my finger against his mouth. "Please don't say that."

He gently captures my finger, laying it aside. "You did."

"I know. I just... I am out of my mind with curiosity and know not what to say or think." I cup his face in my hands, grateful he does not refuse. "But I have no excuse for debasing you, no cause for such censure, and I humbly ask your forgiveness."

Heated eyes hold mine for an agonizing moment, and the temptation to melt nearly overwhelms me. Tears sting my eyes, and I blink away their pain to focus on his.

Just when I fear the absolute worst, his hands rest atop mine. "Think no more on it." His cool scent envelops me like a heady fog, and he blesses me with a brief smile. "We have each said regrettable things."

I recall no such thoughtlessness from him but do not argue. He removes his hands and clasps them behind his back. I return to the living room and occupy the chair closest to his chosen position by the door. My body hums to life as he inhales, praying I survive the next few moments.

"I know you value your privacy," he begins without looking at me. "Taking care only to share what you wish me to know. And though frustrated and fascinated that you can block me at will, I respect your boundaries."

He falls so silent I might think I were alone were my eyes not fixed upon him.

But they are, grateful that they need not blink, and indecision cloaks him as if a heavy garment. He stares at nothing, idling in thought, as if knowing as well I as that no matter what he says next, nothing between us will be the same again.

He looks up sharply with sad eyes, and I regret not hiding my thoughts.

"Some thoughts cannot be hidden." I am unsure if he's narrating or answering me. "And those are often the most significant."

I bite my bottom lip to keep from interrupting him, and he presses on. "Before we left Rochester, I learned of your longing for Liam."

I gasp as he speaks my angel's name, and he pauses. "Please," I say. "Go on."

"The depth of your longing was so profound I was compelled to act. So I asked Dr. Cullen if he would solicit our friends to help deliver a letter to your family. The letter was rerouted several times, often unbeknownst to the US Postal Service, in order to protect our location. You may have noticed the international address to which his letter was mailed."

In fact, I had not.

"Once I decided what to write," he continues, "imitating your style posed no great obstacle, though I confess to enjoying that deception least of all. A woman's hand is the signature of her soul and should never be duplicated or…"

"What did you say?" I cannot bear his poetry right now. "In the letter, what did you say?"

He scans my eyes but does not answer, and the prolonged silence brings me to my feet. "Tell me at once!"

He sighs, looking at me one last time.

"_Father…_

_There exist no words to express my sorrow at leaving so suddenly, but please know I had no choice and that I have long desired to reconnect with you. I can only imagine what the town must think—though my former fiancé clarified his opinion the night I left—but I do hope I have not squandered your love. Or the right to express mine._

_I do not have long to write as my new life makes endless demands on my time. Nor will I ever return home to Rochester. There is no real place for me there, and I pray you can grow to accept that truth as I have. _

_But know that I am well and never cease to think of you. Of all of you. And if it please you, do give a hug to mother and Robert, a tender kiss to my Liam, and for yourself, Father, take the strongest and best of my love._

_For as long as the earth remains, I am_

_Your Loving Daughter,_

_Rosie."_

The room falls starkly quiet as Edward finishes his recitation. He does not move or speak, leaning heavily against the door frame. He has laid himself bare and is the weaker for it.

But his eyes reveal no such fragility, and their storminess seems to anchor me to him. I am pinned beneath his stare, though desperate to escape, and I quite literally cannot move.

So I take a deep breath, praying on the exhale, and utter the few words that will guarantee my freedom.

**Well, now! What do we think of this? Was Edward right to make this decision without her? And what will Rosalie say?**

**See you next time, friends! Edward's POV is next :)**


	20. Chapter 20: Never Meant for Me

**Disclaimer: SM owns everything in the Twiverse but please don't steal my plot **

**A/N: I'm excited to welcome several new readers who are giving my Roseward a shot, yay! **

**Now let's check in with our poor Edward. I think he could use a friend or two.**

**Chapter 20: Never Meant for Me**

**Edward's POV**

There it is.

Or more to the point, there it goes.

There _she _goes.

My reason for existing, my muse and master.

Fleeing from me as swiftly as her lovely limbs will allow.

And rogue though I am, arrogant and foolish at once, I am powerless to stop her.

Not after she uttered those four words, words I've heard only in her most private moments, spoken aloud to an ignorant other.

Words never meant for me.

Words I have earned.

I wanted too much, as I am wont to do wherever she is concerned, pressed too hard, prepared so poorly.

Realized too late.

To her credit, she permitted my impertinence, gave me leave to explain myself and my actions with little interruption.

Aside from that ill-timed accusation about my motives.

I slump closer to the stone floor, surprised I am not yet prostrate before the door through which she escaped, ready to worship when she returns.

If she returns.

A stabbing pain the likes of which I have not felt since the Influenza grips my head, and I press my fingers against my temples with enough force to split my skull.

And good riddance.

I close my eyes and recall our last few moments, searching in vain for alternate outcomes.

My story concluded, I idled against the wall by the door, the very breath of life expelled from my lungs. Were it not for the sight of her beautiful confusion, I might well have died a second, deserved death. She was my anchor, my only tether to this world, and I selfishly needed her to keep me here.

But she needed release—I could see it as plain as the tears she could no longer cry—and I would have been a fiend indeed had I denied her.

Yet I had not expected her chosen passport to freedom.

Even without my gift having fallen victim to my weariness, I would not have heard those words coming.

Words never meant for me.

"Please… let me go."

The first word guaranteed my surrender. But the final three were my undoing, the severing of my soul, whatever of it remained.

I closed my eyes, breaking the spell, and felt her incredulity and resolve coalesce as she prepared for departure. Sighing her gratitude in a sub-audial breath, there was a rustle of paper as she presumably tucked the letter back into the safety of her bosom.

Then a rush of wind and a slam of the door as Rosalie fled the house and likely my life forever.

And there it is.

There it goes.

The best of me, the totality of what I could and should have been.

There it goes.

There she goes.

Away from me.

And rightfully so.

Pushing against the floor, I recline against the wall, running my hands through my hair with enough force to render me bald. And as I replay our conversation for the fifth time, I realize my mistake.

I should have told her the truth.

This is not to say I lied—the very notion makes me physically ill—but that I told her a partial truth, a safe truth to preserve the fragile peace we have enjoyed undisturbed since the night she changed me.

The safe truth because the other is too volatile and would have exploded all over our entanglement, leaving nothing unscathed.

Told her the safe truth for the same reason I do everything I end up regretting.

I was afraid.

Afraid to face the truth.

At any given moment, there are several truths at play.

In the dead of winter, it is true that a human could freeze to death if unprotected from the chill.

But it is also true that many animals are never more alive than in the depth of a snowstorm.

And in the life of Rosalie and me, of all the truths at play, there is one overshadowing them all.

Rosalie does not trust me.

And I do not trust her.

Not in the ways which provide the foundation for lasting liaisons.

Not in the ways which precipitate real intimacy.

Not, I am loath to admit, as the doctor trusts his bride.

Yes, we laugh and tease. We flirt and play. She trusts me to respect her physical boundaries as I trust her not to abuse my patience. She trusts me not to expose our affair to the Cullens as I trust her to use her mildest insults when in their presence.

But she does not trust me with how profoundly she misses her family. She does not trust me enough to admit she still thinks of Royce and occasionally regrets her hand in his demise.

And I have secrets too.

I do not trust her enough to mention my memories of Mother's death, how they nip at my mind at the most inopportune times. I do not trust her with the tale of my rebellion and how I miss the potency of human blood more often than not.

And so lacking are we, I cannot reveal my deepest secret, the truth with the greatest potential to annihilate us and make her despise me forever.

If she does not already.

I rub my eyes and fold my hands, knowing neither action will do any good. This is a marvelous mess of my own making, and there is nothing to be done until Rosalie decides my fate.

I stare at the axe where it idles above my neck and wait.

—B—I—

"He is alone, Carlisle."

Mrs. Cullen's wilted whisper rouses me from my stupor, and I fly to my room to escape her inspection. Though they are a half-mile away, I cannot face them.

Not when I am the reason they will lose their daughter.

I stare out my rear window, startled to discover it is night. Recalling my annoyance at the earlier dawn, I realize a full day has passed.

And Rosalie has yet to return.

To his credit, the doctor does not reveal his knowledge of my activities on Rosalie's behalf. I had it on good authority he had taken his wife into his confidence. But his casual comments suggest he shares her ignorance though they both know he does not.

Though I pay little attention to the dynamics of their union, this omission by mutual consent fascinates me. How can she know he harbors a secret and not be alarmed? How can he keep something from his beloved without being wholly consumed by guilt?

In truth, Mrs. Cullen's feminine instincts understand enough for her to suspect my involvement with Mr. Hale's letter. But she would never mention to me what I have never mentioned to her, and her silence intrigues me almost enough to seek her counsel.

Almost.

The Cullens are nearly at the front door, and I freeze in indecision. I do not wish to remain trapped with their curiosity and concern pressing upon me, but leaving this house before Rosalie returns is an intolerable option.

Before my mind fully decides, I am at the piano, my twitching hands ghosting above the keys in appreciation. These elegant ivories have never let me down, and before my nonsister invaded my life, they were my sole companion and friend. With my recent blunder fresh in my mind, they become an outlet for my angst, the receptacle for my reflexive rage.

Mrs. Cullen gasps aloud when the first furious chord cuts through the silence, gripping her husband's hand for support. They share a look, saying nothing, and warily enter the house.

The front door shuts with an audible click, but I continue to play, pouring my anguish into each murky measure. The stormy symphony swirls around me, plunging my soul deeper into despair. There is no comfort to be had, no respite from the pain, and the notion pleases me as I deserve no such relief.

"We have to stop this." Mrs. Cullen sits on their bed, her rising empathy inciting me to pound the keys. "He cannot take so much upon himself."

The doctor pauses as if preparing for the undressing I expect and deserve.

"I know, dearest." He takes her hand, lacing their fingers together. "His tenderness is a blessing, but I fear he only sees it as a burden."

"Do you think it can change?" Her concern is palpable. "That he will come to see himself as we do?"

"Yes," her husband says with conviction. "When he becomes the sole source of another's joy, when he allows himself to be loved, he will realize how richly he deserves it."

His compassion is so unexpected, I stop playing at once. An unfamiliar warmth spreads through my chest, and were I human, I would have wondered if my heart were in mortal danger.

What is he doing? Why does he speak as if he cares for me? I know he changed me to keep an ill-advised promise to Mother, that he is disappointed in my recklessness and brooding. Why would he pretend otherwise for her sake?

Is that the key to lasting happiness? Falsity and facades? Hiding your soul behind a fortress of lies where nothing of significance can harm you? Could Rosalie and I be on to something in our refusal to lower our defenses?

Is there a "Rosalie and I" to consider anymore?

The query rouses the tempest within me, and I let it overtake me with no regard for anything else. Mrs. Cullen lays her head on the doctor's shoulder, their silent prayers exacerbating my torment.

As the sound and the fury crash about me, I wonder where Rosalie has gone.

If she has gone.

She is cagey enough to linger on the periphery of my gifts, far enough out of range where I cannot hear or feel her, but close enough to gauge my mood as only she can.

And what if she were to come upon the house and hear such a ruckus? Would she understand my wrath is self-directed? Would she hear the shame between each line and space?

Or would she assume I resent her reaction and further delay her return?

The thought of causing her additional injury sends an arctic shiver down my arms to my fingers which immediately cease their raucous play. Mellowing into a soothing sonata, I apologize to my percussive partner and pray I am yet able to convince my nonsister to speak to me again.

Or at the very least come back home.

—B—I—

It is the evening of the third day.

My inhumanity renders me incapable of fatigue, but I am weary of waiting for Rosalie's return. Not because this piano bench has been my constant home since the moment I began to play. Nor because Mrs. Cullen's sympathy is somehow stronger in its silence.

But because I am powerless to do anything but wait.

There are no moves to make, no favors to elicit. Even were I close enough to Dr. Cullen to request his assistance, the situation is too precarious to involve a third person, even one acquainted with the details.

As it stands, he is steeped in the belief that he too is to blame.

"_I should have warned you more sternly," _he thinks every few hours. _"Better explained the risks."_

I no longer bother to object, respecting his need for self-flagellation.

But I will not share the burden of guilt.

It is mine and mine alone, and I will cherish it as evidence of what Rosalie and I once shared.

For I assume it is all I have left.

I am bridging into a new movement of the reflective piece I have played seventy-two ways since yesterday when I hear it.

The one thing I never expected to hear again.

The one thing I need to hear most.

"_Edward."_

Soft but sure, cautious and controlled.

A microcosm of everything she is.

I am on my feet before her mind finishes my name, awaiting her command.

But her thoughts turn to the fading fall foliage around her, leaving me at a loss.

With no other plan, I do the only thing I can think of, the only thing that makes any sort of sense.

I return to the place she left me.

Blurring to the center of the living room floor, I ignore the stares of the doctor and his wife, unable to calm my needless breathing.

She is closer now, though she moves with deliberation. She acknowledges each tree, counts the points on each leaf.

And spares me not a thought.

My fists ball at my sides with the need to crush something, to release this swelling knot of fear and longing in the pit of my belly. At the rate she travels, I could fell half the forest and still return in time for her entrance.

But I cannot move without her consent and will not speak to seek it.

Mrs. Cullen decides to give us some privacy, but I still her with a look, afraid the slightest situational shift could frighten my Muse away.

She is outside the house now, her feet on the stone path leading to our front door, and I am alarmed when she does not pause. Her trek continues up the stairs, and she turns the door handle before I know how to react.

If I thought she was beautiful before, she is positively luminous now, as if she has spent the past three evenings bathing in moonlight.

My jaw goes slack, and though words fly through my mind on ready, regretful wings, I am unable to speak as her guarded eyes hold me captive. I lick my lips, preparing to force their cooperation.

But I needn't have bothered.

"You wrote my father."

I blink at her voice, swallowing past the ache of missing it. "Yes."

"You told him I was alive."

Her expression reveals nothing, but one-word answers seem best. "Yes."

"You told him I would not come back, that I could never see him or my Liam again."

Though her voice falters on her brother's name, she does not relinquish her grip on my attention. "Yes."

With a low growl, her nostrils flare, and I drop my gaze to the floor. I am faintly aware of the Cullens' presence and their rising fear of a physical confrontation. Laying a harsh hand to either of us is a distasteful prospect, but neither could they allow us to destroy each other over a well-intended gesture.

Their concerns intensify when Rosalie strides across the gap between us with her hands outstretched as if to choke. Mrs. Cullen comes to her feet, though her husband prevents her from blocking Rosalie's path as she desires. Dr. Cullen's distress becomes a fervent prayer that Rosalie will see sense and decide not to attack me.

I pray I survive with most of my limbs intact.

But their thoughts on the matter disappear from my consciousness as Rosalie's hands close not around my throat but my face. And the Cullens cease to exist altogether when she strokes my cheek with a sigh and presses her exquisite lips to mine.

**WHOA! Talk about your unexpected welcome! What's behind this response? And what will The Cullens say? Find out next time, dear readers! xoxo**


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